


A Trophy Father’s Trophy Son

by JackiIDK912



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Watcher Entertainment RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Blood Kink, Bondage, Character Death, Daddy Issues, Dom/sub, Enemies to Lovers, Family Death, Illegal Activities, M/M, Murder, Past Domestic Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia, Protective Ricky, Protective Tinsley, Rough Sex, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Smoking, Toxic Masculinity, like big time, mafia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:35:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 71,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24295204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackiIDK912/pseuds/JackiIDK912
Summary: “Detective C.C. Tinsley speaking,”“Detective, I want you to be completely honest with me,”“Who is this?”“You’ll find out soon enough, but first off I need you to confirm something for me. Is it true what they've said about you?"----Or: Tinsley is hired to find a notorious mobster's missing father.
Relationships: Ricky Goldsworth/C. C. Tinsley, Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej
Comments: 112
Kudos: 89





	1. Brick By Boring Brick

It had been unusually cold for that time of year, he remembered. Instead of the regular comfortable warm air that hugged like a blanket, the air was crisp and demanded a coat to shield against the frigid temperatures. Of course, he was in his office when he got the call that night. He never seemed to leave the stifling confines of the walls unless he was out on a case, and even then he could still feel the oppression of that room in the corners of his mind.

The room was no more than a fifteen by twenty space with only one window and two doors. Those didn’t have windows either. It was often lit up by a lamp that stood solitarily atop a dark wooden desk, yellow in the most artificial way. Papers were haphazardly strewn along the dark wood with cryptic writing along them, the writings of a sharp mind. 

Filing cabinets lined the wall behind the desk under the window and were painted a bleak green. They would screech with protest upon opening them, agonized by how many times they had been used. Papers also were peppered on the tops of the drab metal, accompanied by the crooked rotary phone. If you didn’t know it was there you never would’ve seen it, the plastic melted so well into its surroundings. 

It was on that phone that he got that call. 

He was sitting at his desk pouring over one of his cases, a cheating spouse. This case was dime-a-dozen and the details were starting to bleed into the other similar accounts. He was acting strange, she was changing her appearance. Most of the time, they really were cheating, and this case was turning out to live up to the stereotype. 

He jumped at the sudden and violent way the ringing of the phone ripped open his thoughts and the silence that saturated the office. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, lack of sleep making him irritable. He didn’t end up picking up the receiver until the fourth ring. 

“Detective C.C. Tinsley speaking,” he sighed out exasperated, fatigue and exhaustion finally catching up to him as the caffeine in his bloodstream subsided. 

“Detective, I want you to be completely honest with me,” a deep and smooth voice flowed through the phone. Tinsley instantly woke up, the danger sensors in the back of his mind going off. Something about this voice was so enticing it was threatening. 

“Who is this?” he asked defensively. This call seemed to fall outside the societal norms, and Tinsley had a hunch that this man on the other end also fell into that category. 

“You’ll find out soon enough, but first off I need you to confirm something for me,” the man spoke silkily but with an edge that could cut diamond. Chills crawled down Tinsley’s skin. 

Before the detective could say anything else, the disembodied voice spoke again. 

“Is it true what they’ve said about you? Are you really the best detective for hire?” Tinsley could hear the soft sound of a drag being taken on a cigarette. The detective was taken aback by these questions, he wasn’t really the best judge on himself as it was

“I’ve never backed out of a case until I was satisfied enough with the conclusions I’ve drawn from the information gathered. That being said, I’m with the philosophy that there’s always someone better than you,” he answered, hoping this would be a sufficient enough answer for this mystery caller. 

There was a beat of silence as Tinsley’s words were considered, a nervousness branching its way through his spine. He didn’t know why this man made him feel so on edge, something he’d have to consider later if this man wanted to be one of his clients. 

The voice hummed noncommittally, breaking the tense silence. “There will be a letter arriving in about two days time. If you want to take up my offer, follow the directions in the letter. If you don’t, then forget this encounter ever happened.” 

Tinsley’s mind was reeling and clouded by a violent storm of questions, none of which seemed to want to come to the surface and untangle itself from the others. 

“How will I know that the letter will be from you, then?” he questioned finally, his thoughts starting to clear themselves up. 

A smooth and condescending chuckle emitted from the speaker of the phone. “I guess you’ll just have to use that detective brain of yours,” he purred. 

The detective truly had never felt so conflicted. Part of him wanted to scoff and write this whole interaction off as someone just trying to fuck with him. But the inquisitive part of his mind, the stronger part of it, was nagging at him to find out more about the faceless caller. 

“Goodnight, Detective Tinsley. I hope to hear from you soon,” and just like that, the enigma hung up the phone.

C.C. Tinsley stood there, dumbfounded and holding the receiver with his mouth slightly agape, for a good moment later. He came to his senses as a clap of thunder yanked him out of his stupor. He set the phone back into the cradle and ran his hand through his hair, looking out the darkened window smeared by raindrops. Looks like he’d be spending another night sleeping in his prison cell.  
\+ + +  
That next day, he awoke with stiff muscles and a headache that could rival God’s great wrath. Groaning, he stood up from his desk and tried to ebb the thundering of his temples with easing fingertips against that part of his skull. 

His secretary, a Miss Jeneane Walker, watched Tinsley emerge from his darkened quarters and rubbed the nape of his neck. He had an impression of his watchface engraved into his right cheek and his hair was only suitable for the rats. Of course, he was wearing yesterday’s attire as he was prone to do most days of the week. 

She had grown accustomed to such sights having worked for this brilliant mind for the better part of three years, but as usual, it left her with a deep-rooted concern. 

“Did you sleep in here again? God, you can’t keep doing this to yourself, Uncle Colton,” she exclaimed with a knitted brow. Her black hair hid part of her forehead and framed the sharp jawline she concealed behind curly hair. 

Tinsley ignored her concern and gave her a sidelong glance. “Was there any mail today?” 

She shot him a look that screamed “don’t think this is over”, but let the subject drop, at least for now. “No, there wasn’t any mail today.” 

The detective reached the coffee press that sat on the wall next to the receptionist desk. He looked over his left shoulder momentarily to glance out the door at a car horn that erupted on the street. “That’s unusual, we’re normally swimming in mail…” He let his thought die. 

“Yes, normally we are,” Jeneane agreed with a nonchalant tone. She normally used this tactic when being sarcastic. 

A heavy silence laid between the two kin. Tinsley drew a sip out of his mug with a quizzical look on his face, pondering what the lack of mail meant. At the back of his mind, he was wondering if that whole phone call was just a dream or not.

Jeneane sighed and rubbed her forehead above her right eyebrow. “You can’t be serious right now,” she said after a beat. 

Tinsley turned his attention towards his niece and took in her exasperation for him. “What?”

_How can a man this brilliant be so moronic_ , she thought to herself. “Tinsley, it’s Sunday.” She finally answered, head still in her hands. 

Tinsley felt the embarrassment instantly flood to his face. “Oh,” he said behind his mug. 

“Go home and get some rest, Uncle Colton. You need it,” she ordered with a fierce concern in her voice that reminded him so much of his sister, he felt his heart lurch into his throat, causing tears to prick at his eyes. 

“But-” he was cut off by Jeneane as she raised her hand to silence him. 

“If anything happens, I’ll ring you, I swear. Now please go take care of yourself before I have to chase you out of here with a broom,” she smiled with a stern look in her eyes, once again a mirror image of her mother. 

No longer having the energy to fight her on it, he gave her a single nod, not trusting his voice to be steady. He made his way to the door after setting his coffee down next to the press. He was again stopped by Jeneane before he reached the door.  
“Ah, not so fast, cowboy,” she said and then pulled him into a tight hug. He melted into the embrace and hugged her back, feeling the loneliness she also held. They were the only ones left for each other, anyway. 

“Alright, now get out of here before I change my mind,” she said while swiping at her eyes but trying not to smudge her mascara. He nodded again and walked to his car, really feeling the tiredness fall heavy onto his body like a piano.  
\+ + +  
The detective pulled into his driveway, killing the engine and glancing into his rearview. 

He peered into this mirror again once his brain registered the car that was parked in front his neighbor’s lawn. Strange, that car had never parked there before and was far too fancy to be owned by the Carter’s. 

His mind instantly leapt back to the conversation with that smooth voice last night. He still wasn’t entirely convinced that it wasn’t just a dream, he tended to have odd dreams and that was definitely a strange occurrence. 

He shook his head to try and reboot his faulty wiring. He was doing the thing that he hated the most, jumping to conclusions. There was no evidence to even remotely suggest that this Mercedes belonged to the mystery man. He hated not knowing and his brain was trying to fill in the gaps as much as possible, that was it. 

But then again, his gut was hardly wrong. 

He got out of his car and walked up to his front door with the feeling of someone watching very intensely. Tinsley looked back at the onyx car, but he couldn’t see into the tinted windows to confirm his suspicion. 

The detective pushed open his door and swiftly stepped into the vestibule, slamming the door harder than was necessary. He stood with his back against the wood as he tried to calm his mind down. _What the hell was that, Tinsley?_

When the shaking in his hands subsided, he shed his coat and hat onto the limbs of the brass coat rack. He crouched down to untie his shoes and then toed them off. 

Tinsley looked down at his decrepit flooring, the once yellow wood greying and cracking with lack of proper cleaning and also lack of care. 

Most things in this home were in a state of disrepair, the lack of time spent in these walls contributing to the damage. Miniscule cracks worked their way along the grey walls, accompanied by stains from various alcoholic liquids. Every surface had a healthy amount of dust layered atop it. The curtains were all drawn and stifled sunlight stubbornly streamed through. The furniture would’ve been worn out if Tinsley ever bothered to use it, but more often than not he was in his room or at his office so there wasn’t a reason to use it. 

Tinsley made his way down the master hallway that led to the carpeted stairs leading to his bedroom. There weren’t any pictures hanging on the walls like you would find in most homes like this, but you wouldn't find Tinsley in those other homes. He was a man most acquainted with misery and loss that it would bleed into his own mannerisms. 

Climbing up the beige steps, he walked into another hallway that held the gateways to his two most used rooms. Tinsley ignored his bedroom and stepped into his bathroom, hoping a warm shower will help alleviate his sore muscles. 

He first removed his gold-plated watch, he couldn’t afford the real thing, but that never seemed to bother him. Next, he loosened his standard blue tie. He never liked wearing them because they always felt like he was choking, but like all of the suffering Tinsley felt, once he was acclimated it was completely ignored. The wrinkled white button up was discarded along with the almost shiny belt. 

Turning on the water, Tinsley looked at himself in the mirror for the first time in days. His normally endearingly messy hair was abhorrently tangled and sticking up in odd angles. His five o’clock shadow infringed into beard territory and the bags under his eye made it seem like he had gotten into a fistfight with William Jack Harrison Dempsey. 

The detective stroked his facial hair while inspecting his reflection from different angles and sighed. He’d like to say that this version of him was new and surprised him, but lying gets you sent to hell. Jeneane was right for sending him home, he was exhausted and frankly looked like death incarnate. 

Slipping his pants off along with his boxers, he stepped into the comfortable rain. Tinsley nearly came eye to eye with the shower head, if he stood on his tiptoes then his head would graze it. Indulging in a long shower, his thoughts consistently returned to trying to analyze the phone call. Part of him really believed that it was someone pulling his leg or that it was his strained, sleep-deprived mind playing tricks on him. But something in the back of his mind was allying with the feeling in his gut that _no, it was real and something big is about to happen._

Turning off the cold water after the conflicting views of his mind caused him to stay in the shower longer than he wanted to, he toweled his skin to almost dry and created a frenzy of his hair. Finally reaching his bedroom, he ended up falling asleep completely naked as his total exhaustion sank its claws in.  
\+ + +  
Detective Tinsley was ripped out of his dreams again by the sound of a ringing phone. He grumbled out curses that made even the devil blush as he aggressively snatched the phone off the hook.

“Tinsley,” he growled out, still half asleep and wrapped in his sheets.

“Good morning, Uncle Colton, sorry to disturb you-”

“Why are you saying good morning, Jeneane? You already saw me today,” he mumbled and scrubbed his hand down his face. There was another loaded silence between the two.

“Uncle Colton, it’s 11:23 Monday morning,” she informed reluctantly. Another paused filled the line.

“Son of a _bitch!_ ” Tinsley exclaimed frustratedly, sitting up on the bed. 

“Anyway, when you decide to show up to do your job, there’s a letter here for you with no return address,” his niece sighed out, clearly fed up with her chaotic uncle. And with that, the line went dead. 

Tinsley fell back onto his pillow with his hands covering his face. He let out a muffled scream in frustration. _You really need to get your shit together, Tinsley. Your fifteen year old niece is more functional than you._

He threw on his typical white button up with black pants getup and retrieved his belt, watch, and shoulder holster out of the bathroom. He did change it up a little and put on a blood red tie instead of his usual black or blue. Hastily shaving off his facial hair, he only managed to nick himself once. 

The detective threw some bread into his toaster and laced up his shoes while he waited. When it popped out of the machine, he already donned his hat and beige trench coat. 

At the office, Jeneane was typing away on the typewriter and didn’t acknowledge Tinsley until she was finished with whatever her task entailed. She gave him a look that screamed “I can’t believe you sometimes” as she waited for an explanation. 

“Look, Jen, I don’t know why either, ok?” he pinched the bridge of his nose with his left hand. 

“Oh, I know why, it’s because you’re a child who doesn’t know how to take care of themselves. I’m not your mother, Tinsley! If anything it should be the other way around!” Jeneane scolded, folding her arms across her chest in a maternal manner. As always, she was correct. 

“I haven't passed out for that long since college. Although, there were about two or more bottles of whiskey involved. Funnily enough, I got a similar lecture from your mother when I finally came to with a hangover so horrible that it made me not touch alcohol for the next semester.” Tinsley waited for his niece to laugh, and she did after a moment. He didn’t get to go to college, but that seemed better than him saying he was in emotional disparity and inching ever closer to alcoholism.

“Lord, you’re really testing me with him,” she spoke to the ceiling. Jeneane reached behind her and grabbed a relatively thick envelope with no return address. “Here, I have no idea who the hell it’s from, but it was in the mailbox.”

Tinsley took the letter from her and turned it over in his hands to better inspect it. The front had _Detective C.C. Tinsley_ written on the face of the envelope in grand swirling calligraphy. The content inside the pure white paper was on the hefty side and seemed bulky. 

Instantly, the detective’s mind leapt back to the cryptic call he received two days ago. 

_”There will be a letter arriving in about two days time. If you want to take up my offer, follow the directions in the letter. If you don’t, then forget this encounter ever happened.”_

_Tinsley’s mind was reeling and clouded by a violent storm of questions, none of which seemed to want to come to the surface and untangle itself from the others._

_“How will I know that the letter will be from you, then?” he questioned finally, his thoughts starting to clear themselves up._

_A smooth and condescending chuckle emitted from the speaker of the phone. “I guess you’ll just have to use that detective brain of yours,” he purred._

_____ _

“Uncle Colton?” Jeneane was standing up from her desk chair and a concerned look on her face. Damn it, he zoned out again. 

_____ _

“What? Oh, yeah sure,” he dismissed and swiftly made his way into his office, his niece calling out after him. He muffled her voice with the slam of his door. He knew she would be back in about an hour with a vengeance that hasn’t been seen since biblical times, but he’d deal with that later. 

_____ _

Right now, the only thing he was focusing on was the envelope in his hands. 

_____ _

Tinsley walked over to his desk while staring at it. There was a part of him that didn’t want to open it, that if he did then he would get in over his head tenfold. But curiosity killed the detective.

_____ _

The detective picked up the switchblade that sat next to his lamp and cut open the seal on the envelope. Inside was a letter and stack of bills, twenties to be exact. His heart dropped to his stomach, who the hell would throw a wad of cash at someone with no guarantee of being paid back?

_____ _

Tinsley set down the money and unfolded the letter. The writing matched that of the front of the envelope with elegant looping lettering. 

_____ _

____

> _____ _
> 
> Detective C.C. Tinsley, I hope this letter finds you in good health and with a willingness to take up a case. You see, I need to find someone who has been elusive from me my entire life and all other efforts have failed me.
> 
> _____ _
> 
> If all went to plan, you should’ve received a phone call a couple of days ago from me. From what I understand, Detective, you’re the best of the best, and I only accept perfection. The job I’m offering you will not be easy and, in all honesty, could cost you your life. The person I need you to find has been invisible for thirty years but has a reputation for danger and is prone to violence, if you accept, tread lightly. 
> 
> _____ _
> 
> I realise that after what I just disclosed to you, the probability of you accepting my offer is very slim. So to sweeten the deal, I’ve sent you an advance of a thousand dollars. However, detective, I must tell you. If you plan on taking this job, let’s just say a thousand dollars will seem like petty change. 
> 
> _____ _
> 
> If you accept my offer, then call the number enclosed and allow me to take care of the details. If you do not, then use the money I sent you and treat yourself to a nice vacation. I hope to hear from you soon, Detective.
> 
> _____ _

_  
_  
_  
_   
_   
_

The letter ended with a phone number, just as promised. The area code was not from the Chicago area, he didn’t recognise it. Tinsley picked up his phone automatically and spun the number into the rotary. 

_____ _

He hadn’t realised that he didn’t think over his decision before making the call, and it finally registered that he was actively calling the enigma until he was answered. 

_____ _

“Hello?” a deep voice asked. Tinsley froze for a moment when he realised what he’d just done.

_____ _

“Ah, yes. This is Detective C.C. Tinsley,” he finally answered, resting his hand over his eyes in exasperation of his own rash decision. 

_____ _

“Perfect, just who I was wanting to hear from. So I assume this means you want the job?” the man purred out, slick was his very essence. 

_____ _

“I’d like to know who would be employing my services first, before I give a definitive answer,” Tinsley rebutted. The same condescending chuckle slithered into his ears. 

_____ _

“In due time, Detective.” _Why was he so adamant about keeping his identity hidden?_ “Now, since you’ve taken the job, you’ll need to pack your bags, preferably for a long trip.”

_____ _

“How long? Why won’t you directly answer my questions?” the detective questioned, getting agitated now. 

_____ _

This elicited another one of those amused chukles. “What’s the rush? I thought you’d appreciate a little mystery,” the smug smile was evident in his tone.

_____ _

“I spend countless hours trying to solve mysteries. It would be against my nature to leave questions unanswered,” he bit back. Another chuckle. 

_____ _

“Alright, Detective, allow me to alleviate some of your suffering then,” the mystery spoke smoothly. “You’ll be put on a plane in about three hours after one of my cars drives you from your house. Oh, and dress lightly, there’s been a bit of a heat wave here.” 

_____ _

“What makes you think I’m going to do as you say? I don’t even know what this job entails, and you expect me to follow your every whim?” Tinsley was truly upset now, never had he had a case so infuriating. 

_____ _

“All the fine details will be discussed when we meet face to face. I do hope you clean up nicely, Detective, I plan on doing so over dinner,” there was something in his voice that made Tinsley feel like he was being flirted with, and he didn’t know if he liked the way it made him feel. 

_____ _

“That didn’t help at all-” the detective was cut off. 

_____ _

“Oh, if you happen to have a three piece suit, make sure you wear it. Our meeting spot requires such garments,” the voice purred out. “Safe travels, Tinsley dearest.”

_____ _

And once again, the man hung up on Tinsley and left him in utter bewilderment. The detective already had a good judge of Smooth Mystery’s character (that’s what he’d decided to call his client). He seemed to always want the upper hand and liked when things would go his way. He was clearly wealthy and well educated, evident by the letter and the amount of money he bribed him with. 

_____ _

This was going to a difficult meeting. He’d dealt with the rich snobs many times before, and each time he worked for them the more his resentment grew. They always looked down their nose at you and were openly passive aggressive about your status being below their golden shoes. 

_____ _

Tinsley sighed and hung up the receiver. He’d better get to packing.  
\+ + +  
After finally escaping his niece and supplying her with as much information as he could about his whereabouts for the next couple of days, he drove back to his home. That black Mercedes was still parked in the same spot it was yesterday. 

_____ _

The detective had to grab his suitcase out of the trunk of his car and bring it up to his closet. He ended up just putting every summer item of clothing that he owned into the case and his pair of dress shoes. Thankfully, he did have a three piece suit and didn’t have to dig too hard to find it. The three piece was from his sister’s wedding and he hadn't had an occasion to wear it since; Tinsley hoped it still fit. He laid that on top of all the other clothes as he’d be needing it the soonest. 

_____ _

Packing toiletries and leaving a note on his kitchen counter for Jeneane to know what to do to watch over the house, he knows he’s stalling, but can you blame him for being a little reluctant to jump when Smooth Mystery says so. 

_____ _

_Knock Knock._

_____ _

The two quick taps ring sharply out into the house from the front door. Tinsley sighs and finishes out his letter before answering the door. He was greeted by a woman in her late forties. Her blonde hair had patches of grey streaking through her neatly kept bun that sat high atop her head. A pair of wire glasses that matched the ones he currently was wearing were also sitting on her nose. Stress wrinkles were formed on her forehead. She was a beauty with dark blue eyes that had a coldness in them that could freeze steam. 

_____ _

“Detective Tinsley, if you could follow me,” she commanded and removed one hand out of the pocket of her trench coat to gesture at him. At this point, the detective had had enough with being bossed around. 

_____ _

“No, fuck that. You’re gonna at least tell me who you are first and then I might follow you,” his grip on the suitcase handle tightened. She regarded him for a moment with the same cold expression, seemingly unphased by his animosity. 

_____ _

“My apologies Detective, it’s been a long few days and my manners aren’t at peak on a normal day. My name is Holly Horsely, I will be escorting you to meet my boss this evening,” she extended her hand for him to shake, and this time Tinsley was assessing her. 

_____ _

He set down his luggage and took her hand with a firm grip from both parties. “I also extend my condolences, Miss Horsely. Negotiating with your boss hasn’t exactly been peachy,” he dropped her hand. 

_____ _

“No one knows that better than me, I’m afraid. So, with that out of the way, would you please follow me,” she stepped out of his way so he could leave the house. He did so and locked his front door behind him. 

_____ _

She led him to the black Mercedes that’s been parked across the street from him for the past couple of days. A sensation of violation surged up into his heart, but he forced it into the back of his mind with a reminder to bring it up over dinner. 

_____ _

Miss Horsely opened the trunk of the car and Tinsley set the suitcase into it.  
\+ + +  
The drive over to the airport was filled with a tense silence. Every attempt at conversation would fall flat and left an awkward air between the two. 

_____ _

When the luxury sedan slowed to a stop on the private runway, Tinsley felt out of place. Smooth Mystery was really trying to flaunt his riches and shove them down the detective’s throat. The man could barely afford to buy an extra outfit, but apparently Smooth Mystery could hire a brigade of men dressed in tuxedos all so that they could bid him “welcome, have a safe flight, Detective,” on the walkway to the boarding stairs. 

_____ _

_Damn rich asshole._

_____ _

Holly was sat in the row next to him engrossed in a book about the Spanish Inquisition when he finally asked her the question burning his tongue. 

_____ _

“Miss Horsley, who is your boss? Who the hell am I about to meet?” he inquired and pushed up his glasses. 

_____ _

She looked over at him over her reading glasses with a face that said she was expecting this. “I’m afraid I can’t disclose that information.” 

_____ _

Frustration boiled in his blood. “Why is he so damn adamat in keeping his identity hidden?” It was more of a yell than a casual question. 

_____ _

“I’m under strict orders to keep his name a secret. If it were up to me, I would’ve told you by now. His motives are just as much a secret to you as they are me,” she turned back to her book. “He’s never been easy to work with.”

_____ _

“He seems like a real supercilious person,” Tinsley sighed out as he pushed up his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

_____ _

“Allow me to ask you this,” Holly closed her book and removed her glasses. She turned her body to fully face the detective. “How old do you think I am?” 

_____ _

The detective was taken aback by her question, but answered none the less. “My guess is around late forties, maybe fifties?” Was that rude?

_____ _

She raised her eyebrows but not in an alarmed way, it was an acceptance. “I have greyed quite significantly, haven’t I?” she conceded mostly to herself. “I’m thirty-nine, Detective Tinsley.” 

_____ _

Shock pulled his eyebrows up into his messy hairline. There was no way this woman was that young. 

_____ _

“You don’t have to believe me, Detective, and I don’t blame you for your skepticism. But that child has taken years off my life from the amount of stress he causes me on a daily basis,” she admitted. Holly sighed and rubbed at her right temple, book still in her left hand. 

_____ _

“Guess my original profile of him wasn’t that far off,” he mumbled, watching the woman next to him. Her ruby lips pulled into a small smirk. 

_____ _

Miss Horsely turned her head towards Tinsley once again. “You should get changed, Detective Tinsley, we’ll be landing shortly.” And with that, she returned to the pages of her novel. 

_____ _

The detective removed the garment bag and dress shoes from his bag and took them behind a curtain. The plane was sectioned off by green velvet tapestry that seperated the pilot from the seating area and then the seats from a lounge with leather couches. When he pulled back the curtain, he was engulfed by the beauty of the lounge. Two dark brown couches with angled backs sat regally across one another against the walls of the plane. A small crystal chandelier was quietly chirping with each shake of the turbulence. A purple, red, and gold area rug swirled in a kaleidoscope of colors and branching golden vines. At the back of the room stood a bar decorated in a plethora of brown and clear liquids in elaborate and ornate glass decanters. He frowned at the sight of this, if Smooth Mystery was willing to flaunt alcohol like that, then chances are he thinks of himself as above the law. 

_____ _

Tinsley rid himself of his tan coat and began to work off the rest of his garments in succession of that. He removed the suit from the garment bag and replaced each removed clothing item with the three piece. The crisp white button up peaked out under the vest and thin black tie. The heather grey suit was complemented by the white pinstripes that ran in a plaid pattern across the fabric. He placed a black pocket square in his left breast pocket, folding it so that two triangles soared out of the pocket. The vest had two rows of black matte buttons that formed a barrier of the center of his torso. Once he donned the vest, he secured his shoulder holster before covering that up with his blazer. 

_____ _

Tinsley noted how it was tighter on him than he remembered, but just enough to make it uncomfortable. He looked at himself in the mirror wall that was staring at him from behind the bar. It wasn’t the best he looked in it, but it’d have to do.  
\+ + +  
A car was waiting for them at the airport, an exact copy of the one that drove them to the plane. Tinsley tucked his legs into the back seat, Miss Horsely taking the seat to his right. 

_____ _

“You’ll be dining at the _False Idol_ ,” Holly disclosed to Tinsley. He looked over from the window, fidgeting with his shirt cuff, feeling very out of place. 

_____ _

Holly noticed. “You look very handsome, Detective, there’s no need to worry,” she said almost in exasperation.

_____ _

Tinsley noded, but adjusted his tie anyway. 

_____ _

A few minutes later, the pair pulled up to an ivy infested marble building. Two large columns guarded the brass entrance, and a sign was suspended between the pillars with _False Idol_ painted on the dark wood in gilded letters. 

_____ _

A man in what looked like a butler’s uniform, complete with pristine white gloves, approached them. “Good evening, follow me, if you please,” the man mostly addressed Holly. She did so without hesitation and Tinsley followed suit. 

_____ _

“Mayor, good to see you again. How’s the boss been holding up?” She choked on the word “boss”, but the man didn’t seem to pay attention to that. 

_____ _

“He’s been keeping himself…. Occupied. The master seemed very pleased with this current scenario, however. How have you been, Ma’am?” Mayor said over his shoulder. The whole conversation irritated Tinsley, he hated being talked about like he wasn’t in the room. 

_____ _

“The least stressed I’ve been in a while, it seems that sitting around and waiting is peaceful,” Holly responded, heaving a great sigh. The detective had had enough of being ignored. 

_____ _

“Great to make your acquaintance, I’m Detective C.C. Tinsley,” he interjected, extending his hand to the butler. The Mayor looked at it in slight surprise, but took his hand anyway. 

_____ _

“Apologies, sir. Pleasure to meet you, I’m referred to as the Mayor. I am your employer’s trusted servant,” Mayor explained, then took his hand away. He continued to lead the pair through the restaurant. 

_____ _

Tinsley was taken by the beauty of the interior. The walls were painted a powder blue and were accented by golden vines swirling in elaborate patterns that made him dizzy. The ceilings were painted in a renaissance style of realism that could’ve been done by Michaelangelo himself. Every so often a pillar would be carved out from the wall with half of it hidden within the plaster. One wall was a grand arching mirror with gold metal work inlaid in the glass in a smaller arch. The detective stopped in front of the gold tinted crystal and made small adjustments to his appearance, mainly trying to calm his hair down. He had tried using hair product to slick it back in a small wave, but he didn’t use enough. 

_____ _

Tinsley caught up with the two and was quickly stopped by the Mayor. “He’s waiting for you behind this curtain. Good luck, Detective.”

_____ _

A stab of fear went through the detective’s heart, he had been waiting for this for days, and now he was going to be able to put a face to Smooth Mystery’s alluring voice. He took a breath and then pulled back the fabric. 

_____ _

The first thing he noticed was the large gilded chandelier looming over the round table. The room was surprisingly well lit and the only thing inside was the table, and a very handsome man sitting in the chair farthest from him. His attention was fixed on the napkin folded on his plate. When they made eye contact, all of the air left the detective’s lungs. He forgot how to breathe. 

_____ _

The man had golden skin with perfectly full lips that he knew most women would kill for. His sharp jawline was accented by the dark stubble that was neatly trimmed on his face. He had a very sly grin that never quite met his eye, but made Tinsley weak in the knees. His raven black hair was in a perfect quiff with one lone strand hanging in the front of his forehead, making it the only imperfection visible. His eyes, Tinsley noted, were almost as dark as his hair, just barely a brown. He wore an air force blue suit with no tie. The button down was a crisp white with clear buttons. The vest that was under the blazer had a gold pocket watch chain hanging from the second button from the top and had a golden lipped pocket on the left side. All of the pockets on his torso had golden trim, except for the breast pocket that had a silky golden handkerchief frozen in a lazy wave. There was a gilded round pin on his lapel that was no larger than a penny with a design that the Detective couldn’t quite make out. Smooth Mystery was the one to break the silence first. 

_____ _

He grinned a lopsided smile that was full of smugness, but his eyes had a glint of something the detective couldn’t quite place. “Detective Tinsley, we meet at last,” he purred out and gestured for him to take the seat across from him. 

_____ _

Tinsley did so, mentally scolding himself for staring and possibly giving him an advantage, but then again, he already had a huge advantage by withholding his identity. 

_____ _

“Such a pleasure, Detective,” he took Tinsley’s hand and lightly pressed his lips onto the detective’s knuckles. He could feel the warmth flood to his cheeks. “I’m so pleased that you made the trip out here.” 

_____ _

The detective brushed his fingers over the spot Smooth Mystery had just kissed absently. “Yes, a luxury flight,” he said rather coldly, still annoyed that he didn’t know Smooth Mystery’s real name. 

_____ _

The man’s eyes flicked up and down Tinsley, taking in his features with his grin growing slightly. He put a champagne glass to his lips and took a sip while maintaining eye contact with the detective. Tinsley wanted to squirm under his intense stare but held his ground and kept the eye contact.

_____ _

“Now, the case,” he set down the skinny glass. 

_____ _

“No. I’m not talking details until I know who you are,” Tinsley snapped. He wanted to keep a calm and collected exterior, but something about Smooth Mystery rubbed him the wrong way and he was using all of his restraint on not yelling. 

_____ _

Smooth Mystery smiled in a way that reminded Tinsley of the Cheshire Cat. “Very well, Detective. If that’s what you want…” 

_____ _

He smoothed the front of his suit. “My name is Ricardo Goldsworth, but please, call me Ricky,” he quirked up his right eyebrow. 

_____ _

Tinsley froze from taking a sip from his champagne. “I’m sorry, Goldswoth? As in the most influential bootlegging family this side of the Mississippi?” he chuckled out in disbelief. 

_____ _

Ricky rested his right hand under his chin with a smirk on his lips, eyes twinkling. “The very ones, Tinsley dear. Hope my history doesn’t put a damper on our plans.”

_____ _

The detective felt a stab of fear strike his heart again, he’d heard the stories and read the papers. He knew that if you weren’t useful or got in the way of the Goldsworths, then you vanished without a trace. 

_____ _

“Well, I guess that all depends on what I’m being tasked with,” Tinsley replied, proud of himself for hiding his inner panic with a calm voice. 

_____ _

Ricky folded both hands and rested his chin on them, watching Tinsley with his eyes shining and not in a way that the detective appreciated. “Your task doesn’t involve murder. I can guarantee that, Detective,” he explained, still staring at him. 

_____ _

He didn’t look away when a waiter came over and placed breadsticks in between the two of them. Tinsley felt like he was under a microscope. “Wonderful. I may not follow the law as much as a detective should, but that is one of my cardinal rules.” 

_____ _

A smirk played on Ricky’s lips and he finally looked away to grab a breadstick. “A wayward detective, how very intriguing,” he sounded genuine, which prickled at Tinsley’s skin. 

_____ _

“Are there any menus that I might take a gander at?” he inquired, trying to change the subject. 

_____ _

“Don’t worry about that, I’ve got that covered,” Ricky waved dismissively and leaned back in his chair slightly. 

_____ _

The detective’s nerves started to fray again. “While I trust that you have good taste in cuisine, I’d rather love to be able to make the choice myself,” he slightly gritted out, trying his very best to restrain his irritation once again. 

_____ _

“If that is what you desire,” Ricky smoothly replied and snapped his fingers. A waiter in his early twenties came running and left as soon as he was ordered to bring a menu. 

_____ _

“Now, business,” the man practically cooed out. It really felt like Tinsley was trying to be seduced, but of course he knew better. 

_____ _

“Yes, business. You mentioned in your letter that you wanted me to find someone who has been eluding you for your whole life,” Tinsley took a sip of champagne, Prohibition be damned. The detective noticed a twitch under Ricky’s right eye but his composure remained.

_____ _

“That is correct. I want to employ your services to locate my father.” Ricky revealed, his calm voice bringing on a malicious edge. 

_____ _

Tinsley caught Ricky’s eye and saw the murderous intent barely contained behind his smooth facade. “And what is your father’s name?” 

_____ _

“Henry Koizumi.” 

_____ _

Tinsley’s confusion caused his brow to knit together. _He didn’t take his father’s last name?_

_____ _

Reading his expression, Ricky sighed and filled in the details. “My grandfather didn’t approve of my mother being with my father and gave them an ultimatum; either my father leaves the state and never contacts my mother again or he would make sure that Henry would die in the most creative way he could imagine. Naturally, my spineless father skipped town within twelve hours,” Ricky bitterly relayed. 

_____ _

Tinsley could tell there was more to the story than that, but didn’t intend to pry. Not yet, at least. His menu was placed in front of him. The detective opened it and absently glanced through it. “And do you have any indication of his whereabouts? Any family that he could’ve taken refuge with?” 

_____ _

Another sigh escaped Ricky, this time exasperated. “No, he immigrated here by himself from Japan.” 

_____ _

The detective nodded and read through the menu items again. He made his choice and set down the leather on his plate. “Are there any leads that you could provide me with? Perhaps your mother kept in touch with him anyway?” 

_____ _

“Unfortunately, Mamá wasn’t the rebellious type. No, nothing of the sort I can give you. The last PI came back empty handed and even that was years ago,” Ricky crossed his arms on the tabletop and leaned in towards the detective. 

_____ _

“I can see why you promised such a high price,” he muttered under his breath. “If you don’t mind me asking, why look for him now if you seemed to have given up the search?”

_____ _

The elite paused from taking a bite of bread and then cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. “I’m not willing to disclose that information, and it would be in your best interest to never think that question ever again,” he bit out. Tinsley recognized the threat beneath the words and felt the gears turning in his head. _What could cause Goldsworth to snap so suddenly? Did he strike something personal?_

_____ _

The detective nodded and gave his order to the young waiter and waited until he was gone to continue their discussion. “Alright, so what I tend to do is that I don’t expect any payment until my investigation is over. But, that being said, I do like to know what kind of compensation I will be receiving.” 

_____ _

Ricky changed on a dime and went back to his sly mood. “Of course. I was thinking of something on the higher end of six figures,” he said casually, like he was talking about the weather and not something that the average human couldn’t even fathom. 

_____ _

Naturally, Tinsley choked on his drink and sputtered out champagne. He collected himself a moment later all the while Ricky wore a smug grin. “I’m sorry, I must’ve heard you wrong. You said six figures?” 

_____ _

“Oh, your hearing is accurate. I was thinking something near $750,000,” Ricky waved dismissively again. Tinsley’s jaw dropped to the floor. 

_____ _

“Ah, ok, sure….” The detective scrubbed both hands down his face, disbelief weighing in his mind. _Fucking rich asshole._

_____ _

“There is a catch to this whole offer, I should alert you,” Ricky said behind the flute. Tinsley snapped his head up to look at the casually comfortable man. Of course there was a catch. 

_____ _

“And what might that be?” 

_____ _

Their plates of food were set in front of them. The smell of salmon filled the detective’s nose and his mouth watered. 

_____ _

Ricky set down the glass and stared Tinsley dead in the eyes, the grin ever present. “I’m going to accompany you throughout this entire investigation.” 

_____ _

This guy can’t be serious right now. “I don’t think that advisable. I do my best work alone and, to be frank, you’d only make it harder and prolong the search.” 

_____ _

His grin didn’t fade but his eyes went hard. “I don’t think you heard me. I’m going with you no matter what the hell you say. I’ll be paying for every expense along the way and, to be frank, I want to know that I’d be getting my money’s worth.”

_____ _

The detective watched as Goldsworth stabbed into his steak and chewed his bite, still maintaining eye contact. Tinsley was mentally analyzing what this meant. He’d have to spend days with a rich elitist criminal with daddy issues. Tinsley didn’t want to acknowledge that these were currently the cards that had been dealt to him. 

_____ _

Tinsley fell back in his chair and scrubbed a hand down his face, keeping it over his mouth as he mentally waged war in his mind. On the one hand, he could be set for the rest of his life if he took this job and even put Jeneane through college, giving her the life he and Leona never got. On the other hand, this investigation could potentially take years and he’d have to babysit an arrogant elitist asshole with homicidal tendencies the entire time. Not to mention no real leads are evident according to Ricky. But, Jeneane has dreams of going to law school, not that she ever talked about that to Tinsley, but uncovering secrets was his profession. 

_____ _

He’d made his decision, he’d bite the bullet and tolerate this one-percent criminal to see Jeneane get sent to school. 

_____ _

The detective sat straight up in his chair, gaining the attention of Ricky who was polishing off his steak. Tinsley made sure Goldsworth was looking him in the eyes. “I’ll find you your father, to the best of my ability I will search for him, but I want to lay down some rules. Agreed?” 

_____ _

Ricky stared at Tinsley’s outstretched palm with an impressed look momentarily flashing across his face. That condescending chuckle trickled from his lips, but he shook the detective’s hand nonetheless. 

_____ _

“I’ll admit, Detective, your determination is impressive,” he let go of Tinsley’s hand. “If you can keep your word, that is.” 

_____ _

The taller man barely kept from rolling his eyes. Didn’t this prick understand what a monumental task he was undertaking? “Well, I try to keep my word as best as I can, Goldsworth.” 

_____ _

The detective returned to his salmon, cutting off a cold piece and eating it anyway. He never was a picky eater. “So, it seems to me, the person that I have to confer with first, is your mother.” 

_____ _

Once again, the mention of his mom caused Ricky to freeze in place. Malice and an undertone of deep concern burned in his eyes. “I’ve already told you everything she knows. You don’t need to see her.” His tone was clipped and dangerous. 

_____ _

“Well, even if that is true-“

_____ _

“It is.” Ricky gritted out.

_____ _

“Yes, but what kind of detective would I be if I didn’t double check my sources? You said yourself, you only accept perfection. I think we would both agree that overlooking a potential major lead like not conversing with your mother would be a critical error.” 

_____ _

Rage was now controlling the shorter man, his knuckles bleached around the knife he clutched. But, he seemed to consider Tinsley’s words. 

_____ _

“Fine, we’ll go see Mamá. But if you so much as breathe at her too much, I won’t hesitate to cut off your scalp and make that mop into a wig. Understood?” The elite ended his threat with a sickly sweet smile. 

_____ _

The detective wasn’t phased by the threat itself, but by the fact that he was being threatened. He’d already had enough of this pompous douche and if there was one thing that made Tinsley quick to anger, it was being threatened. 

_____ _

“Rule one that I want to lay down, I don’t take kindly to threats. They don’t really work on me the way you want them to. So, if you continue to think that you intimidate me or that you can by promising me bodily harm, I’m taking the first train back to Chicago. I’m already threatened enough by the assholes that get in the way of my answers, I don’t need that shit from the people who hire me to get the fucking answers in the first place. Is that clear?” The detective was now standing up from his chair and had a finger pointed at Ricky. He didn’t remember getting up or when his anger had gotten the best of him, but he wouldn’t take this from a supercilious bastard like Goldsworth, college be damned. 

_____ _

The impressed glint was back in the elitist’s eye. Tinsley had a really strong feeling that the people Ricky surrounded himself with hardly ever gave him a taste of his own medicine, as much as this prick needed it.

_____ _

Ricky leveled his gaze with Tinsley as he also stood from his seat. The tension that was stifling the air could’ve been cut with a knife. “Fine, I’ll agree to refrain from threatening you if you agree to respect Mamá and keep what you see a secret until you die. Do we have a deal?” 

_____ _

Part of Tinsley knew that this was merely Ricky placating him, but Tinsley would hold him to his words. “I don’t know why you would think I would disrespect your mother, I’m simply not that type of man. But I accept nonetheless,” Tinsley revealed and shook Ricky’s hand once again. 

_____ _

“Let’s go see Mamá.”

_____ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> $750,000 in 1927 is equivalent to $11,051,250 in 2020
> 
> Thank you for reading! I’ll post the next chapter as soon as I can!


	2. Fortress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: this chapter contains mentions of domestic violence. If you or someone you know is a victim of this, please call 1−800−799−7233

It was hard to breathe in that backseat. The tension was so thick, Tinsley was in fear of suffocation. 

Ricky sat to his left at the window, his jaw clenched behind his golden rings. Not a word was spoken the entirety of the journey and neither man looked away from each of their respective windows. 

The detective chanced a glance at the elite, debating how to bring up the subject of his mother without getting Ricky to snap at him again. 

Tinsley ran a hand through his hair and heaved a sigh. He really wanted to be anywhere but with this petulant trust fund baby. 

The shorter man also glanced over at the detective, but didn’t do much else to acknowledge him. All of his body language screamed “don’t try to talk to me”, his legs crossed along with his left arm tucked under his right, still staring out the window. 

Tinsley turned back to the window and watched as the large city receded and bleed into suburban lawns and then into sparsely placed mansions. The detective’s astonished disbelief grew as each passing castle outsized the next. 

Finally, they slowed at the largest and most stunning house the neighborhood had to offer. The three story palace had columns guarding the entrance along with a sprawling garden, complete with a fountain in the center of the compressed cul-de-sac. Two towering maple trees protected either side of the white mansion, concealing the true expanse of the house. The windows watched from each floor as the four sharply dressed people stepped out from the ebony vehicle. 

Ricky waited for the Mayor to open his door for him, causing Tinsley to roll his eyes so hard he nearly damaged his optic nerve. 

“Get the Detective’s luggage and bring it to the guest bedroom on the third floor,” Ricky commanded once the door was closed behind him, not giving the Mayor the decency of eye contact. The Mayor nodded and carried out the order regardless with a “right away sir.” Holly had already disappeared behind the front door, presumably on her way to stress over work from her few missed days. 

“This way, Detective,” the elite waved behind him, strutting up the steps. 

Tinsley was still marveling at the artistry of the manor as he did what he was told. Ricky ripped the door open and didn’t wait for Tinsley as he tore into the opening, nearly causing the heavy wood to break the detective’s arm as it swung back to resume its closed position. 

“Thanks for waiting, jackass,” Tinsley muttered, upset from nearly getting injured. Ricky heard him, but elected to be the better person and not stoop to an insult. Not because he was a little sorry at the thought of almost hurting the detective, but because he knew it would get under Tinsley’s skin even more to act all high and mighty. 

The working man was met with a double grand staircase foyer that had an archway underneath, leading to a room containing a grand piano. The railings were made of frozen gilded vines that twisted in elaborate patterns. All the walls and floors seemed to be made of marble. A herculean crystal chandelier hung lazily from the ceiling, catching Tinsley’s eye the most. Ricky smirked at Tinsley’s reaction, smug as always. 

“Like the chandelier? It’s Tiffany,” Goldsworth noted casually, once again ruffling Tinsley’s feathers. How he can so nonchalantly remark about things that cost more than the detective’s house four times over will forever make him irritated. 

“Lovely,” Tinsley commented stiffly. 

The elite shot him an annoyed glance. “Stay here and don’t touch anything, I’m going to go see if Mamá’s even willing to talk to you.” 

And with that, Goldsworth swiftly made his way up the right set of stairs and vanished behind the corridor. 

The detective, after Ricky’s footsteps couldn’t be heard any longer, proceeded to touch the first thing that was within reach. It was a porcelain cherub triumphantly playing an elongated brass horn. The white face had soft patches of blush on the chubby cheeks, it’s eyes closed. The genitals of the statue were covered by a golden silk that loosely draped over its crotch. Its wings were splayed and barely poked out behind its plump arms. At the base of the sculpture there was a small ribbon that had the name _Lucy_ engraved into it. 

Tinsley placed the cherub back in its spot, worried that his clumsy nature will appear at the worst possible time like it always seemed to. He moved into the room that held the piano, a coal majesty that brought a bittersweet wave of nostalgia to his conscience. He ran a delicate hand over the smooth finish of the wood. He hadn’t seen a piano like this one since-

“Detective,” Ricky called, standing at the threshold under the arch. Tinsley jolted his hand off the piano and mind away from his current train of thought, a surprised look on his features. It was clear Ricky was debating on whether or not to reprimand Tinsley for not following his demand. For a brief moment, Tinsley could swear that amusement flickered in Ricky’s eyes. 

The elite cleared his throat after the realization dawned on him that they were staring. “Let’s go, Mamá isn’t known for her patience.” If he weren’t so oblivious, Tinsley would’ve noticed a blush warming up his face. 

Ricky performed an about-face and made for the staircase again, Tinsley in tow. The detective was pulling on his shirt cuffs again, cursing his height. Nothing was ever long enough to cover his yards of limbs. 

As the two were walking to meet Ms. Goldsworth, the detective took in the decór of the house. Anywhere gold could’ve been integrated, it was. The walls were a pristine white and had a window every couple of feet that was dressed in a silky cream curtain, framing the arched glass. Between each window was a chandelier that was crying crystals shaped like flowers. The ceiling was painted to look like heaven, complete with puffy clouds and colorful angels. _Ironic,_ Tinsley thought, _considering the mass amount of sin contained within these walls._ The carpet was a blood red with golden vines branching and framing the edges of the rug. Every door they passed was closed, a dark wood with golden elaborate diamond shapes accenting the portals that were made out of vines once again.

Tinsley started to wonder what kind of woman Ms. Goldsworth could be. Calm and collected with a regality to her essence, or wrathful and quick to anger? 

Almost instantaneously, the detective got his answer when Ricky knocked on the set of double doors. 

“Come in,” a woman with an accent commanded. 

Ricky addressed Tinsley before he turned the handle. “Remember our agreement, be respectful and don’t breathe a word about what you see today.” 

And with that, the doors swung open to reveal a grand fireplace and a gorgeous woman in her late forties lounging on what could only be described as a throne. She was wearing a long black dress that flared out at her knees. The cut of the neckline was low in a sharp V, a golden pin similar to the one Ricky had on his lapel was pinned at the point of her neckline. A sheer, shimmering golden bow was tied loosely around her waist and hung lazily from her left hip. The long sleeves were fitted to her forearms but flared out at her elbows and flowed to reach her waist. 

“Ah, mi chico de oro, that was quick,” she remarked, the love apparent in her eyes. Ricky walked to her side to receive a kiss on the cheek from her.

The elite matched her expression. “I can’t keep you waiting, Mamá,” he professed lovingly. The detective was taken aback by the swift change in demeanor from Ricky, but all his warnings and threats surrounding his mother made sense to Tinsley now. 

“¿Es él? ¿El apuesto detective que mencionaste?” She questioned and made a gesture towards Tinsley. 

The heir glanced at the detective and smirked, knowing that he didn’t understand what the family was talking about. “Sí, ¿no es bonito?” 

“Siempre has tenido buen gusto, cariño,” Ms. Goldsworth approved, looking the tall man up and down. Tinsley had that same feeling from earlier, being under a microscope. 

“You must be Detective Tinsley,” she finally acknowledged. The detective nodded and extended his hand for her to shake. 

“Indeed I am, ma’am,” he stated. She took his hand, her multiple golden rings digging into his skin with her firm grip. 

“I’m Ricardo’s mother, but please, call me Lucy,” she introduced, pulling a practiced smile. “Please, sit,” she pointed to the chair across from her which Tinsley took. 

“I’m sure your son has already told you why I’m here,” he looked up at Ricky, who was hovering protectively behind Lucy’s chair, “but I’d like to ask you some questions about Henry, if that’s alright.” 

Both Goldsworth’s went tense at the mention of the name, but Lucy nodded regardless, her sharp eyes reminding Tinsley of Ricky’s in the fire light. “Of course, that’s your job, is it not?” 

“Indeed.” Tinsley answered, producing a pen and tablet of paper from his blazer. 

“Now, my first question, when was the last time you saw Henry?” The blue collar inquired. 

Lucy thought on his question for a moment. “March 11th, 1910. He had just gotten back from a business trip.” 

The detective froze at the mention of the date, his blood turned icy and his stomach dropped. Fire. It was all he could think about. The heat, the destruction, it was all at the front of his mind. He was hyper focused on the one roaring next to him currently, it was all he could hear, all he could see. The smoke was filling his lungs again. Oh lord, how it filled his lungs. How could he forget? The snap of the fire blazing ripped him from his stupor. “Right, do you know where he had come from?” he stammered, glancing nervously at the fireplace once more. It was contained and harmless, he reminded himself. 

He made eye contact with enticing and beautiful brown eyes. There was a perplexed look in them. Tinsley liked looking into his eyes so, so much better than the soulless ones of the fire. These eyes were so much more warm and vibrant than the flames. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” she replied. The tall man tore his gaze away from Lucy’s son, writing down the date. He could feel the questioning gaze from both Goldsworth’s as he wrote down the information, a flush creeping up his neck. That was the second time they were staring at each other within an hour. 

“What kind of business was it? What was his job?” Tinsley pressed, trying to ignore what had just transpired between him and Ricky. They couldn’t stand each other, yet they got lost in the other’s gaze anytime it was caught by the other? 

Ms. Goldsworth glanced nervously at her son, but the moment was fleeting and easily missed. “He worked for my father, Leonardo, as his…executioner,” she revealed. 

“Mamá que nunca mencionó que,” Ricky blurted out, clearly surprised. 

“¡Cállate!” She commanded, holding up her palm in front of her son. Ricky was still visibly upset, but did as he was told nonetheless. 

“I see.” The blue collar cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “Ricky mentioned that the reason Mr. Koizumi left was because Leonardo didn’t approve of you two being together-“ 

“Unfortunately, that’s a lie,” Lucy concedes. She sighed heavily, causing her to go into a hacking fit that went on for an alarming amount of time. 

Ricky was kneeling by her side in an instant and fussing over her, handing her a handkerchief and holding her left arm soothingly. Concern was written all over his features.

Tinsley’s brow knit together. “Ms. Goldsworth-“ 

“Keep your mouth shut, long legs!” The white collar snapped, going so far as to bare his teeth. 

“Cállate, Ricardo. Usted necesita ser más amable con él.” Her coughing subsided slowly. The whole atmosphere of the room changed to tense. 

“Pero, Mamá-“ 

“Por el amor de Dios, Ricardo. ¡Escúchame por una vez en tu vida!” She exclaimed, the room going silent. 

“Lucy, are you alright?” Tinsley tried again, shooting Ricky a glare. He returned the glare but remained silent. 

“Yes, yes. I’m alright, but thank you for your concern.” Lucy folded up the cloth that she had coughed into, grimacing at it. 

Tinsley wasn’t stupid, contrary to what Jeneane was always telling him. He knew that Lucy was lying about her health. The defensive reaction that was elicited from Ricky anytime she was mentioned. The fact that she was actively trying to tie up the loose end of Henry, who she had given up hope of finding years prior. The tense demeanor of her two closest associates, the Mayor and Ms. Holly Horsely. Her coughing fit. It was clear, Lucy was dying. From what, Tinsley still didn’t know, but that detail wasn’t important. 

Stressed, Ricky pulled out a cigarette case and removed a cigarette. The detective forced himself from rolling his eyes again because the filter on the tobacco stick was golden. At least he was consistent. 

“Where was I?” Lucy asked

“You said that Leonardo didn’t cause Henry to leave,” the tall man supplied. 

“Right, he didn’t. Not for the reason you were led to believe anyway,” the mother answered. It was evident that she was steeling herself for what she was about to say, and it left both men slightly concerned. 

“The real reason that that son of a whore left was because Papá found out that he was,” she took a shaky breath, puzzling Tinsley. “Because he was beating me.” 

The air in the room could only be described as the calm before the storm, nervousness and near frozen terror for what kind of destruction could be bestowed. No one dared to move, too afraid to be the cause of the violent storm, not yet fully processing the terrible information given. 

Then, just as unexpected and cataclysmic as the real thing, the high magnitude earthquake of Ricky Goldsworth disrupted the false sense of serenity. He slowly rose from his spot next to his mother and released her hand, covering his mouth with that same hand. 

No one was ready for the explosive sound of a fist shattering plaster. Both the detective and Lucy Goldsworth jumped at the event as the former was frozen in place looking at Lucy, the latter hanging her head shamefully at what she had just admitted. Now the youngest had the full attention of both parties. 

The cloud of plaster dust was beginning to settle on every nearby surface. Ricky’s right hand was resting above the newly formed hole and was a stark white contrast to his normal golden skin. The elite’s breathing was ragged and shallow. His eyes didn’t seem to be focusing on anything as they were filled with what could only be described as pure unadulterated seething rage. No one moved again or spoke, seconds ticked by, then minutes. 

After what seemed like hours, Ricky was the one to break the silence again. “I’m gonna kill him.” 

He turned to address the others in the room. “I don’t care if he’s my blood, that cunt is going to regret ever speaking to you,” he whispered, making the threat even more terrifying. 

“Cariño-“ 

“¡No, Mamá! ¡Ese hijo de puta te lastimó! ¡Y no se va a salir con la suya, no mientras estoy vivo!” 

Goldsworth was now in front of the detective and was pointing in his face, plaster still coated his hand. “You’re going to find this insolent fucking bastard.” 

Tinsley opened his mouth to try and say that he was extremely motivated to do such a thing, but didn’t get the chance to even take a breath. 

“¡Cállate, cabrón! I want this piece of shit located!” He shouted, his face red and peppered with pronounced veins. 

“¡Ricardo Leonardo Goldsworth! ¡Detente ahora mismo!” Lucy yelled as she rose from her seat. 

The mother stared down her son, but Ricky wasn’t backing down. The argument ensued through angered looks, a word never uttered in English or Spanish. After very intense emotions were passed between kin, the youngest stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind him, fury exuding off him in a way Tinsley has never seen before. 

After he was gone, Lucy fell back into her throne and went into another coughing fit, blood staining her handkerchief. Once she calmed down, Lucy was rubbing her forehead and sighing. 

“I’m sorry that you had to go through that, Ms. Goldsworth,” Tinsley softly sympathized. Lucy gave him an exasperated look, a tired smile pulling at her lips. 

“While I appreciate your sympathy, I’m afraid it’s misplaced,” Lucy sighed. 

The man numbly nodded and looked back down to his notes. “No one should have to go through being hurt by someone you trusted.” 

A loaded silence once again permeated the air at the implications, except for the roaring of the fire. Each lick of the flame and snap of wood made the detective’s anxiety heighten. He hated fires. 

“I think I’m going to need a drink, what do you prefer, Detective?” The woman spoke, ripping Tinsley from his thoughts. 

“Oh, I tend to reach for whatever I can buy on the shelf. But rum tastes the best, personally,” he provided. Lucy nodded approvingly and called over the Mayor, who Tinsley hadn’t realized was in the room with them. He blended so well with the rest of the house, it was like he was, in fact, part of the structure itself. 

“Bring a bottle of Angostura and two glasses, please,” Lucy ordered, sending the butler out of the door. “Your questions, detective.” 

“Right. Of course. Do you know where we could find him? Any place he might have mentioned?” 

“He did talk once or twice about wanting to visit New Orleans, but that was years ago, and also when he was younger,” she dismissed her own information. 

“My sister lived there, it was a lovely place to visit,” Tinsley replied, trying to keep his mind on happier thoughts. 

Detective Tinsley was only in New Orleans twice. The first time he went was the happiest time of his life, when Leona married her husband Jasper in 1913. He was his sister’s “butler of honor” because she didn’t want anyone else to fill that role. He remembered teasing her about the name but accepted instantly when he saw the hope in her eyes. He never could say no to Leona and she knew that, but she only used that power on special occasions. It was a very small wedding in that humid church, but he would’ve suffered through Armageddon to watch his little sister finally be with someone who could really take care of her. He remembered the tears welling in his eyes the first moment he laid his eyes on Leona in that gorgeous lace dress, smiling brighter than the sun. He hadn’t seen her smile like that in years. 

The second time he was in New Orleans was the worst moment of his life. The detective forced that thought away, he didn’t want to dwell on that.

The Mayor entered the room, a tray delicately balanced on his fingers with the maple colored liquor stoically atop the silver platter. He made his way through the large red room and to the chairs, addressing Ms. Goldsworth first. “Madam, Ricky has left the manor and taken the book with him.” 

Lucy looked disappointed, but not very surprised, almost like she knew this would be the outcome. “Did he go alone?” 

“No Ma’am, Miss Norris insisted on going with him.” 

She sighed. “Very well, let him de-stress.” 

The Mayor nodded curtly and poured out the rum in each glass, stepping back once his work was done and melted back into the background. 

Tinsley’s mind was racing now. _Who is this Miss Norris character? What book are they referring to? How can it make him less stressed?_ He took the glass, a beautifully carved crystal with diamond shapes protruding along the length of the cup. Aligning with typical Goldsworth decor, the rim of the crystal was coated in gold. After admiring the artistry of the glass, he took a sip of the brown liquid. The sugary fire delighted his senses, the sweetness had just enough presence that it countered the intensity of the alcohol. He relished in the way it burned his throat, he enjoyed this alcohol the most and hadn’t had it since the 18th amendment was passed. He went in for another drink to feel the fire burn him again.

“Alright,” he set the glass down on the side table to his right. “Do you have any pictures of Henry so I know what to look for?” 

“Ricky’s going with you, right?” She deflected, studying the liquor glass. 

The detective pondered why she asked this question because Ricky didn’t seem to know that Henry was his father until recently, so he probably wouldn’t have a picture of him in his wallet. _Oh,_ it occurred to him, _he looks just like his father._

“Correct, Detective. My Ricky was cursed with more of his father’s looks,” she sneered, still bitter over her experience with that monster. 

Tinsley leaned back into his seat, pondering what an older version of Ricky would look like. He imagined him with streaks of white hair and wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. Somehow, he was still devastatingly handsome. 

_Why do you keep calling him handsome?_ He internally questioned. _It’s the truth, and you aren’t one to deny the truth._ The voice replied back. No matter how much he wanted to refute that statement, he knew that it was very, unfortunately, true. 

“Detective, I know we’ve just met, but I have a favor to ask you,” she prompted, a serious look in her eyes that made him think of both Leona and Jeneane. It brought him back to the time when Leona had broken the news to him that she was dating Jasper. Nervous energy was the underlying emotion as you were about to essentially offer up your heart to someone. 

The blue collar swallowed the sip of rum he had taken. “And what favor is that?” He felt vulnerable.

“Please watch out for my cariño while you two are looking for Henry. He has a tendency to go head first into situations and not think about the consequences. I’m afraid he’s going to do something that will get him killed,” she leveled to him, her tone exasperated and slightly pleading. 

“He can barely talk to me without insulting me in one form or another, what makes you think he’ll listen to me?” Tinsley asked. Also the fact that the mere mention of that pompous prick made his blood pressure rise, but it was in his best interest to keep that to himself. Lucy, he felt, was the type of woman to rip your throat out of your body with her perfectly manicured nails if you even looked at her son the wrong way. Tinsley definitely wasn’t about to test that out either. 

“I know my son, Detective. He’ll listen to you,” Lucy said. “I’ll make sure that Ricardo will listen to you, I can promise you that.” That came off more as a threat, and made the detective respect Ms. Goldsworth even more. 

He wondered what exactly it would take to make Ricky bend to Tinsley’s will. Probably something next to a miracle. “I’ll try as best as I can,” he promised. It wasn’t a full one, but he was a man of his word, no matter how big or small of a promise it was. 

For a moment, there was an almost companionable silence between the two classes. An understanding, if you will. Tinsley now knew Lucy Goldsworth’s deepest and darkest secret. She also placed a huge bet on him by placing her most valuable object into his care, her only living relative and son, but she wasn’t nervous. Something deep within her knew that this was the right thing to do. That this gangly, sleep-deprived detective would find Henry and keep her precious Ricky safe. She saw the way they looked at each other, just how she used to look at Henry before he turned into a waste of oxygen. 

“Ms. Goldsworth, I have one last question, if you don’t mind,” he cautiously approached. There was a reluctance in his entire gait as he leaned forward and rested an elbow on his knee. “Why were you with Henry in the first place?” 

Lucy sighed tiredly, but it wasn’t in a negative way. “I was young, Detective. Young and naïve. He was a sweet talker that worked for my father. Papá favored him until the day he found the bruises on my skin. He was always around and he was so, so nice to look at, too.” She reminisced, looking up at God for answers. Regret was present in her eyes.

Tinsley understood. He’d been with someone similar to Henry when he was younger too. That also didn’t end well. She seemed sweet and pretty enough, but it was all a front. The real Lillian was a manipulative, psychological abuser with a kiss just addictive enough to make you want to come back for just one more. “I know what that’s like.” 

“You know I was only nineteen when I had Ricardo?” She asked, her tone regretful. “I was barely alive,” the mother chuckled in disbelief. 

Lucy turned her attention back to the detective. “Do you have children, Tinsley?” 

The detective held up his left hand to show off his bare ring finger. “I’m not married,” he answered. 

Ms. Goldsworth chuckled and mirrored his action. “Neither am I.” 

“Fair enough,” he admitted. “No, no I don’t have any children.” 

Lucy nodded, accepting his answer as sufficient. She pulled out the handkerchief again and began to go into another coughing fit. Tinsley wanted to help her, but wasn’t sure how. He hated to watch people suffer. 

“I do take care of my sister’s daughter,” he supplied, hoping the information will take her mind off her suffering momentarily. It caught her attention. 

“What’s her name?” 

The detective smiled softly at the thought of his niece. “Jeneane, she’s fifteen.” He could picture her right now, probably just leaving the office and taking the bus back to Tinsley’s house. She’d be scoffing at the state of the house and making a mental note to scold him about cleaning it when he gets back. 

“How did you come about taking care of her?” Lucy asked, her interest peaking and coughing dying down. 

Tinsley flinched at the question but tried not to let that show. He really didn’t enjoy the faintest bit about that story. “If it’s the same to you, I’d rather not like to talk about that, please.” 

The wealthy woman was now perplexed, but it started to make sense to her. A great tragedy had struck and he still hasn’t recovered from it. She let the subject drop and a silence filled the room again. 

“I have no further questions, Ms. Goldsworth. Thank you for your time, and I want to apologize for bringing up past trauma. I truly didn’t mean to do that.” The detective clicked his pen and put the notes back into his inside blazer pocket. 

“Make it up to me by making this bastard face his crimes,” she said, the determination fiercely burning in her tone. 

“I won’t let him get away with this any longer, I promise you,” he declared. He meant every word, and Lucy could sense that. He reminded her of herself. 

“Is there a phone anywhere I can use?” Tinsley inquired. He promised to call Jeneane and he doesn’t want to keep her waiting. 

“Of course, there’s one in the library. The Mayor will take you there,” Lucy commanded, prompting the Mayor to appear at her side. 

The servant gestured at the door. “Right this way, sir.”  
+++  
The library was about as grand as you would expect from this extravagant family. Rows upon rows of books that reached up to God’s kingdom. Hardly any dust on a single tome, the room was immaculately clean. 

At the back of the expansive room sat a solitary rotary phone. It’s black, white, and -of course- gold color a stark contrast against the earth toned walls and spines. 

He reached out and removed the phone from its hook, the plastic cool and heavy in his hand. He felt a stab of panic course through his body as he was dialing in his home phone number. He knew that Jeneane would have a million questions and had a scolding on the back burner that she for sure would dust off just for this occasion. 

The phone rang in his ear for a while, causing the detective to worry more with each passing second. _Did something happen to her? Why isn’t she answering? Oh god, please not a repeat of-_

“Detective Tinsley’s residence,” Jeneane answered, making Tinsley sigh in relief. She was ok, there wasn’t a need to worry. 

“Hey Jeneane, it’s me,” he informed, taking a seat in the plush emerald green armchair that was perched next to the phone. 

“Who’s ‘me’? Are you referring to my elusive Uncle who promised to call me as soon as he landed? Because it’s been several hours since I last saw him and I was beginning to worry that I wouldn’t ever see him again because his dangerous job ended up finally killing him!” And there it was, the famous Jeneane Walker scolding. The detective took it all in stride and found himself smiling, he really missed his niece. 

“Jennie, I’m fine, ok? Not dead, just in California,” he explained, hoping this would calm her down enough. His hopes were misguided. 

“California?! Why the hell are you in California?!” She exploded. Tinsley had to pull the speaker away from his ear to not hurt them. 

“I got a case here that will pay a lot of money if I solve it. They want me to find their missing family member,” he relayed. He could hear the amount of questions that information sparked. 

Jeneane was never one to beat around the bush, she liked to strike the heart of the matter and left no survivors. “Who’s family member? Who hired you?” 

This was the question he wanted to not come up. If she knew who had hired him, she would freak out all over again. He sighed and looked to the heavens for assistance. “Ms. Lucy and Ricky Goldsworth.” 

A silence laced the air again, this time there was no fire to fill in the gaps. Tinsley was bracing for the yelling that was about to ensue from his niece, but it wasn’t coming. The only reason he knew that she was still on the phone was her soft breathing that was flowing through the speaker. He was starting to get worried. Sweat was prickling his skin and making him shift uncomfortably every couple of seconds in his seat. 

“Colton Tinsley, you have officially lost your goddamn mind,” she finally breathed out, the fury and concern very prominent in her tone. A shiver went down his spine, Jeneane liked to reserve his full name for special occasions. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” he tried to joke. It fell flatter than a pancake. 

“No, you’re right. You lost that years ago. Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t think you ever had a brain in the first place because if you did, you wouldn’t have gone across the country to meet someone you didn’t even know the identity of! Did it cross your mind that it was a former case whose life you ruined with your investigation and wanted your blood for it, hmm? What then? You’d have left me worrying for days, years, but knowing what happened to you and I would truly be alone this time! Goddamnit, Tinsley! Use that big head of yours for _something_ good, please!” She ranted. Tinsley remained silent so that she could air her grievances. He knew she was right. The majority of the time she was smarter than Tinsley, a product of having to grow up too fast. _The Tinsley family curse,_ he thought morbidly. 

“And now that I hear from you, I find out that not only have you been offered a job by the most dangerous bootlegging family on the West Coast, but you took the bloody offer! I swear, Uncle Colton, it’s like you want me to die of stress.” She lectured. 

“Jeneane, please, let me explain,” he begged, the desperation in his tone so clear that it gave the girl pause. 

The detective took a deep sigh and rubbed his temple with his free hand. “I took this job for you. The Goldsworth’s offered $750,000 if I can find Ricky’s missing father. I know, it’s dangerous and stupid of me to accept the case, but I want to see you go to law school, damnit, and I won’t apologize for that!” She was quiet still, so Tinsley went on. 

“Jennie, I’m willing to go through hell for you, and I’ll be damned if I pass up the perfect opportunity to get you that money for your degree,” he could feel himself start to choke up. “I’m so goddamn proud of you, Jeneane. You’re the strongest person I know. I want you to know that if your mother were still alive, I have no doubt in my mind that she would feel the exact same way. So please, don’t stop me from finally giving someone the life they deserve.” 

Neither family member spoke. The air was charged with such strong emotions, and all either of them could do was try to breathe and process. Jeneane was the one to break first. Tinsley could hear her sobs over the phone and it physically hurt him, he couldn’t comfort her like he usually was able to. He was miles away from her, and he felt every single centimeter. Not surprisingly, tears also were falling from the detective’s eyes as Jeneane’s sobbing continued. 

“Thank you,” was all she could manage, but he felt the intensity of the words. He knew how much she truly meant it, and that was enough. 

“It’s my job, kiddo,” he replied, tears now staining his suit jacket. Tinsley would never love anyone more than this girl crying her heart out. 

They stayed on the phone together while both of them tried to recollect themselves. Weak laughs and multiple sniffs filled the silence. 

“Stay safe and call me each night if you can, understood?” She demanded. Tinsley chuckled, feeling so lucky to have someone who cared so much. 

“I promise. I love you, Jeneane,” he professed, the smile genuine on his features. It made the man look younger and less tired. 

“I love you too, Uncle Colton.” And with that, the call ended.  
+++  
Still a little emotional from his conversation, Tinsley made his way up to his room with a serving girl leading him there. She was a beautiful Asian woman with kind eyes and a black bun in her hair. 

The pair stopped at the top of the stairs leading to the third floor. “That’s your room, the one on the right,” she squeaked. She was very shy and jumped when the detective first talked to her. She was the only other person in the library when he rose from that chair. 

“Thank you for your help. I’m sorry I kept you from your job Miss…?” He tried. She ducked her head and fiddled with the end of her frayed grey apron. 

“Anita, and it wasn’t a big deal,” she stammered, her face turning a light pink. Anita was cute, in an innocent type of way. It made the tall man smile. 

“Tinsley dear, you look awful,” a booming voice projected from the detective’s left. “Were you crying like a little bitch?” 

Anita quickly bowed her head and held her hands in front of her like she was bowing for a royal, Tinsley could sense the fear that was coming off of her. The detective looked over and saw the gilded man leaning against the railing with his hands in his pockets and a cigarette burning in his teeth. Blood was splattered all over the once pristine white dress shirt and Air Force blue vest. He also had a pretty strong inkling that if he could see them, his hands would also be coated in the ruby liquid. 

“Remind you of the moments before you murdered those innocents?” He sneered back. There was too much blood on him for it to have only been one person. _So, I’m working with a serial killer._

Ricky chuckled and sauntered up to the detective. He was smirking as he plucked the cigarette from his plump lips and blew the toxic smoke into his face. He was right, the blood on his hands looked like scarlet gloves. Tinsley knew this was all in an effort to intimidate him, but nothing was working on him. He was nothing but a false king with a god complex and daddy issues, and that wasn’t the scariest thing he’s ever faced. He stood his ground against the heir. 

“Stop hitting on my staff, Nancy Drew,” he growled, mere inches from Tinsley’s face. Ricky lifted up his chin just enough to look down his nose at the blue collar, parting his lips slightly. _God, how I want to know what those lips feel like._ Once again, he was surprised by the thoughts that ran through his head. He’d have to do an internal engine check later. 

Tinsley didn’t back down from the elite and that got under his skin. He was always able to use intimidation to get what he wanted, but infuriatingly, it didn’t work on the lanky detective.

“Why? Jealous, pretty boy?” Tinsley jeered, the malice pouring out of each syllable. He shoved his hands into his pockets and turned to fully face the elite. Ricky rolled his bottom lip between his teeth, making the skin red from the action. They stared at each other for another tense moment, Ricky quirking his right eyebrow ever so slightly. 

The elite took a drag from his gilded cigarette. “Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart, just looking out for my employee,” he purred with a threat woven in his words. As he spoke, the blue tinged smoke poured out of his mouth and towards the ceiling. 

The maid was still bowed and avoiding eye contact, trying her best to placate her boss. Her hands were shaking worse than a Parkinson’s patient and the terror was radiating off her in waves. Her breath was short and unsteady. She was bracing for the worst to happen between the two, she’d already seen something that she wished she didn’t while working here. 

“Thank you for your help, but you’re no longer needed. Go back to what you’re supposed to be doing,” the white collar ordered. Anita curtsied and swiftly made her way down the curved staircase, hand sliding down the dark stained wood and footsteps muffled by the crimson carpeting. 

“No witnesses around anymore, what do you plan on doing now?” Tinsley implied, knowing damn well that this sly bastard had something up his sleeve. 

Ricky smirked when the detective met his eye again, the gilded cigarette still hanging from his lips. The heir pushed past the detective and reached for the curved brass handle that led to his room. Ricky turned back to look Tinsley in the eye, his eyebrow cocked and a look in his eyes that he couldn’t place. 

Without a second thought, Ricky pushed open the door and leaned against the grand dark wood, hand still resting on the brass and the other shoved into his pocket, giving off a casual vibe. The two stared at each other again until the elite broke the silence once more. “You coming or what, long legs?” 

The detective paused, was this a trap? Something about this didn’t sit right with Tinsley at all. His gut was screaming at him, begging him to turn around and walk away. But, like the curious and thick headed idiot he was, Tinsley ignored the warning and slowly made his way into his own room. 

The bedroom was fashioned in the same manner as the rest of the house; in your face levels of unobtainable wealth. Four double doors made of glass peered out onto the ocean view, a balcony clinging onto the side of the house from the doors. Each one was separated by imitation candelabras that were stationed on pillars half hidden by the wall. 

More chandeliers were hanging from the ceilings, one in the middle of the room and the other at the foot of the king bed. Where the chandeliers were secured into the ceiling, a golden pattern swirled out in vines that encircled the crystals. The bed was gated off by a mid-rise fence that made a half circle only protecting the end of the bed. Two pillars that lined up with both sides of the mattress rose from the fence, the top part of the marble was gilded and frayed out in swirling patterns. Where the bed met the wall, a golden wallpaper was plastered. The bed itself was covered in a golden and rich brown striped tapestry with multiple pillows adorning the headboard in the same colors. 

Every curve of where the walls and ceilings met was lined in a golden vining pattern. In fact, every curve of the room seemed to be accented in gold. The setting evening sun cast a golden light on the marble room, reflecting the sun and making the golden accents glow even more vibrantly. And in the middle of all this was the stark contrast of Ricky Goldsworth, a deep and dark crimson against the bright white and maize. 

_He must have a socializing problem,_ Tinsley thought to himself as Ricky stayed quiet and stared at him again. Hands in his pockets, he leaned against one of the pillars. 

“Are we gonna fight or make out, ‘cause I’m getting some real mixed signals here,” the detective breathed. The way the elite bit his lip and stroked his chin while looking him up and down knocked the wind out of him. He had to remind himself that the man standing in front of him was responsible for the deaths of multiple and currently drenched in blood. Yet, somehow that only made him all the more hotter. 

“Woah, slow down, hot shot! At _least_ wait until the third date, big guy,” Ricky purred, his tongue slightly poking through his smirk, his eyebrows raised just enough. Tinsley couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss his throat, or rip it open with his teeth. 

Tinsley, the chaotic disaster he was, uttered that thought aloud. 

“Careful, Tinsley dear. Impulse control was never my strongest area,” the elite flirted, his eyes went dark with- well, Tinsley couldn’t read what emotion that was. 

“Why are you here, Ricky,” the detective barked, trying to avoid whatever might come up from this conversation and the places his thoughts were going. 

“You’re no fun, you know that, ¿bello?” The heir sighed, walking over to an ashtray that sat on the nightstand next to the bed, stubbing out his cigarette. “I wanted to know what Mamá said to you after I left the room.” 

The older male sat down on the white plush chaise lounge with gold accents, exhausted from the man in front of him. “I think it’d be better to hear that from your mother, not me.” 

Ricky resumed his leaning position on the pillar, now standing directly in front of the detective. “I think I asked you what was discussed, not who to ask.” 

The detective rolled his eyes and ran his hands through his hair, this case was going to be a long one. “Ms. Goldsworth thinks that he might be in New Orleans because Henry had mentioned wanting to go there a couple of times.” 

A quiet fell between them. Ricky wanted more but Tinsley wasn’t about to give anything else to him.

“Oh c’mon, I know you talked about more than that,” he rasped impatiently.

The detective gave him an annoyed look. “I think I told you that you should talk to your mother, not me.” 

They glared at each other again, Ricky very close to real violence as he clenched his jaw and balled up his fists. It’s clear that this man gets whatever he wants whenever he wants it, and the fact that Tinsley was not bending to his will set him on edge. 

“Fine,” the elite gritted out. “I’ll have a car ready for us tomorrow to make the trip out to Louisiana.” Ricky flashed a smug grin and then tore out of the detective’s room, slamming the door behind him. 

To Tinsley’s dismay, he heard the door across the hall slam shut with a thunderous sound. _He’s sleeping next to me._

He heard things being thrown and shattering glass behind Ricky’s door, he was having a tantrum like a five year old. 

“You’re in too deep this time, you know that?” the detective asked himself tiredly, scrubbing his hands down his face. 

This was going to be a long case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have changed the name of this chapter over five times. The curse of being an indecisive Queen.  
> Also, I watched Gatsby for the first time to research for this chapter.


	3. Bodies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw//domestic violence and blood
> 
> National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1−800−799−7233

The bright sunlight shining directly into Tinsley’s eyes woke him from his slumber. He sat upright in the silky covers, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and trying to process his surroundings. 

He could hear the gentle crashing of waves on the shoreline and screeching gulls as his mind switched online. Tinsley opened his eyes into a squint as the sun reflected radiantly against the mostly white room. When his eyesight had finally adjusted, he glanced around the room, stretching his arms high above his head. 

The detective froze in place when he spotted a figure standing at the door to his right, the air escaping his lungs. _Impossible, it can’t be him._ “F-Father?” 

He was just as Tinsley remembered him, like he hasn’t aged a day since he last saw him. His long brown hair was tied back in a bow, the streak of grey flowing down from his widow’s peak. The hair was sitting on his left shoulder and curled around the collar of his shirt. The black silk ascot was tightly knotted around his neck and flowed down to the middle of his chest. The neatly put together man demanded respect, no matter who you were. 

And, just as Tinsley always saw him when he was younger, a look of pure disappointment was written on his predecessor’s features, along with disgust and anger. 

“Colton, you have failed me _yet again,_ ” he barked, his stern face turning red. His knuckles blanched white against his tight grip on the cane. 

“Father, I don’t understand-“ Tinsley whimpered, feeling like a child once again. 

“Silence, boy! You will respect your elders!” Clyde Tinsley thundered, causing the younger to curl in on himself and lower his head, avoiding eye contact. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” he whispered. 

“Look at you, I should’ve known better,” Mr. Tinsley muttered, fury still controlling him. “You’re a grown man, for God’s sake and yet here you are, cowering like a little girl!” 

The detective didn’t respond. He couldn’t trust his voice not to quiver. 

“I thought I groomed you to become the man of the house, and yet here you sit in the bed of your client! You should be able to provide for yourself, boy, not depend on others!” His father roared, now standing within feet of each other. His eyes landed on the cane in his right hand, it was carved from an oak tree that used to sit in his backyard. The handle was silver, with a dragon inlaid along the side. His father didn’t actually need it, he only used it for- 

A ringing overtook Tinsley’s ears for a terrifying moment, the left side of his head throbing. He couldn’t face his father anymore; instead, he stared stubbornly at the wall. “You look at me when I’m speaking to you, Colton! Show your father respect!” 

Tears threatened to leap from his eyes and Tinsley was desperately trying to swallow the forming lump in his throat, but looked up at his father nonetheless. The elder’s lips curled into a sneer of disgust. 

“Such a failure as a son,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “Not only as a son, but a brother and uncle as well.” 

Just as if Mr. Tinsley himself had summoned them, he could hear soul-piercing screams coming from the foot of his bed. He knew those screams; he heard them in his dreams almost every night. He knew what he’d see if he dared to look over at the origin of the shrieking, but he found himself unable to resist. 

The blood… it was everywhere. Splattering features into something unrecognizable. But he knew who they were. Scarlet red pooled around them in lakes, splattered on every wall and even on the ceiling. The killer hadn’t held back. He was frozen in terror, the sight was so grisly it disturbed the mind of the hardened detective. At least, he’d thought he was hardened until that moment. 

Tears stung Tinsley’s eyes and blurred his vision, but what did it matter? He’d seen what he’d seen and it would haunt him until his last breath. The back of his throat burned with an agonized wail threatening to escape, but he didn’t have the breath for it. His knees faltered and collided with the dark wooden floors, not noticing or caring about the pain this will cause after he’s not numb anymore. 

Tinsley’s shaking hands reached out for the body closest to him. The woman’s long brown hair was congealed and stringy from the drying blood, limp strands reaching out for him. The side and top of her head were smashed in, exposing that brilliant brain he’d worked so hard to protect. The vacant and terrified expression was just an excruciating reminder that he wasn’t there to defend her, that he’d failed just like his father always knew he would. 

Suddenly, the ringing in his ears stopped. He could hear again. The jarring experience ripped him out of his shocked state enough to pick up on the tormented and demanding cries of a small child. With tears streaming silently down his face, Tinsley stumbled to his feet and ran as fast as he could to reach the wails. If he was in a clearer state of mind, Tinsley would’ve noticed the trail of gore leading straight to the source of the cries. 

_No…_

Instead of a sobbing child crying out for her lost parents, Tinsley witnessed another soul crushing scene; the most horrifying scenario he could have ever experienced. 

There, in the morning sun streaming through the curtains, was the fifteen year old body of his beloved niece, laying in a pool of her own blood. Her face had been bludgeoned beyond recognition, but the detective would know that jet black hair anywhere. She was still tucked in bed, holding the stuffed teddy bear that he had gifted her for Christmas when she was three. Laying at the foot of her bed was an axe, haphazardly thrown onto the sheets. The crimson liquid of each family member stained the head and handle. The blood splatters abruptly ended in a sharp line from where the murderer had gripped the weapon. 

It was all too much. The detective clung onto the door frame and let himself go. Sobs wracked his entire body as he mourned the loss of those he loved so dearly. Each sharp intake of breath would fill his senses with the metallic scent of the ungodly amount of blood in the air, making him cry harder. The detective’s knees gave out once again and he realized he was curling in on himself, hiding from the horrors laid out in front of him. But it didn’t matter. Each slaughter was branded into his mind permanently, replaying over and over in his head. 

_Pillock,_ a voice disturbingly similar to Tinsley’s father whispered in his head, _You’re a pathetic excuse for a man, just like I knew you’d be. Crying like a damsel because you failed everyone you loved._

As much as Tinsley wanted to argue with the disembodied voice, he knew it was right. “I’m a disgusting bastard,” he choked out. 

_You’re the reason they’re dead, Colton. They died because they got close to you,_ his father pointed out. The logical side of his brain wouldn’t let him deny that truth.

“It’s all my fault,” he sobbed out again. He felt the cane crack across his head, his father once again in front of him. 

“Stand up, boy! Stop cowering like a whore and face your mistakes!” Clyde Tinsley bent down and clutched his eldest son’s chin, violently jerking him to his feet and shoving his head to gaze upon Jeneane’s mangled body. 

“Do you now see how incompetent you are?!” Mr. Tinsley growled, digging his nails into his son’s skin. 

“Yes, sir,” Tinsley replied meekly, trying desperately to look anywhere but at his niece’s corpse. 

“Why did it have to take the slaughter of your loved ones to make the effort to become what I schooled you to be?! Was spiting me worth their lives, boy?!” He spat, the anger turning his face that terrifying shade of red. 

When the detective didn’t answer in a sufficient amount of time for his father, Clyde Tinsley struck Tinsley in his rib cage with the cane. “Their blood is on your hands, Colton. You understand?! YOUR HANDS!” 

His father shoved the detective from his grasp and sent Tinsley to the floor, tears still streaming down his face. “I’m sorry, Father-” 

“You have no right to call me that, boy. No son of mine would allow this to happen to his family.” Mr. Tinsley declared, effectively ripping his son’s shredded soul into pieces, never to fit together again.

+++

_Crash!_ The detective was snapped awake by the sound of shattering glass from the room across the hallway.

He slowly sat upright, the satin sheets pooling around his hips in a warm embrace. Hesitantly, he turned over his palms to look for any blood. He tried to steady his hands that were shaking violently by setting them down on his thighs. It didn’t work. His breath was coming out unevenly. He wasn’t entirely convinced that he wasn’t still dreaming.

He slowly took in a large breath and let it go, daring to open his eyes to look around the room. It was hard to see regardless, from lack of glasses and tears blurring his vision even further. Tinsley’s pounding heart threatened to crack his ribs. 

The detective ran his hands through his hair, giving them something to do other than shake. The images of his loved ones’ desecrated bodies leapt into his mind as soon as he closed his eyes, making his breath hitch again. 

“It was a dream, Tinsley,” he stammered, trying desperately to reassure himself like he’d done countless times before. “J-Just a dream.” 

Tinsley, desperate for any form of comfort, wrapped his arms around himself. He couldn’t stop the sobs from wracking his body, but that doesn’t mean that he was proud of it. He knew that he was being ridiculous, crying over a nightmare. He could feel Father Clyde’s disappointment and disapproval weighing on him like an anvil. 

He pathetically started to rock back and forth, gripping his hair in fistfuls. He wanted to scream out, to relieve his anguish at least slightly, but he couldn’t. He needed to pull himself together. He needed to act like a man. 

He heard a knock come from across the hall, quick and hesitant. An unintelligible yell followed.

“Mr. Goldsworth, breakfast is ready.” Tinsley recognized the voice as the maid who helped him find his room last night, Anita. 

The door was ripped open rather loudly as Ricky grumbled about something. “Do you want me to inform the Detective, sir?” Anita timidly asked. She spoke so quietly, he wasn’t entirely sure how he heard her.

“No, I’ll handle it,” Ricky dictated. That booming voice was so loud. Tinsley was certain that if he weren’t already awake, he would be by now, thanks to Goldsworth.

There came a _RAP! RAP! RAP! RAP!_ on Tinsley’s door. He could hardly describe it as knocking; banging would’ve been the more appropriate description. The detective audibly groaned in agitation. 

“Tinsley dearest, are you awake?” The elite questioned, a smirk embedded in his tone. The detective rolled his eyes. It was 8:20 in the morning and he’d already had enough of Ricky Goldsworth. 

“If I wasn’t before, I certainly am now,” he gritted out. He had to remind himself that slamming his head into the wall was a bad idea, no matter how appealing it sounded. 

“Magnificent,” the younger purred. Tinsley was suddenly very aware of the fact that he wasn’t wearing a shirt as the trust fund baby pulled open the door. He was already fully dressed, not a trace of the carnage left from last night. 

Ricky stopped in his tracks when he locked his gaze onto the bare form of Tinsley, a blush dusting itself on his cheeks. He didn’t make any move to cover himself, but rather gave Goldsworth a look, daring him to comment. The two were frozen like that for a few moments, something unrecognizable shifting in the air.

Ricky pulled himself from his reprieve, clearing his throat. That smug smile on his lips returned and he strutted over to the closed curtains. Goldsworth unceremoniously yanked them open, letting the bright morning sun stream through and reflect off the pristine white marble. The detective shielded his eyes with his left hand, trying to prevent the headache that was certainly on its way. 

Ricky stood in front of the balcony, facing the detective. His hands were behind his back like a servant awaiting orders. “When you decide to look presentable, breakfast is waiting for us in the dining room.” 

Tinsley took in a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. _You can’t smack him, he’s paying you._

“Expect me to be late, then,” he bit in return, he really couldn’t stand Ricky’s attitude when his mind was currently doing a rerun of all his greatest horrors. 

Goldsworth rose to the bait, a smirk pulling up the left side of his face. “And why is that?” 

“Well, I presume it’s going to take me a good while to try and find the dining room, seeing as my host hasn’t told me where it was nor given me a tour of his _grand manor_ ,” Tinsley supplied, the sarcasm dripping off the last two words. 

When the smirk faltered on Ricky’s face, he’d knew that he’d hit his mark. “How unsightly of me. I’ll make sure to do so after breakfast. But for the time being, I’ll have a maid show you the way.” 

Ricky made his way towards the door, the annoyance flaring in his eyes, but not showing on the rest of his features. 

“As I see it, it shouldn’t be her responsibility to atone for your mistakes, Ricky.” The elite stopped in his tracks, hands balling into fists. He turned on his heels to look Tinsley in the eye. 

“And what, in all your wisdom, would you have me do in order to receive penance?” Ricky sneered, a dangerous look in his eyes. Now it was Tinsley’s turn to smirk. 

“If I failed to be a courteous host, I would make it up to them by escorting my guest down to breakfast myself,” Tinsley provoked. Nothing upset a rich bastard like Ricky Goldsoworth more than pointing out a glaring mistake of theirs. 

Ricky’s jaw clenched as he righted himself and smoothed out the front of his sport coat. “Fine, I will be waiting for you outside your door.” And with that, he stormed out of the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. 

The detective only reveled in the sweet taste of victory momentarily before the scarring reminder of his nightmare ripped him apart once more. He held his head in his hands and desperately tried to calm himself down before pulling back the warm sheets. He swung his legs off the side of the bed and searched the room for his suitcase, unable to spot it in his preliminary exam. 

_Maybe it’s in the closet?_

He pushed open the sliding door to reveal all his clothes neatly hanging on thin wire hangers. The detective wondered who had done such a thing and why, since he was only supposed to be staying here for one night. 

Tinsley decided to just let it go, seeing as overthinking something like this would be a waste of time and energy. He pulled out a light grey suit to pair with a pastel-ish yellow button up and his regular warm brown shoes. He decided against a tie, as he really wasn’t in the mood to wear one. 

Leaving the first two buttons undone, he walked out of his room and came face to face with Ricky Goldsworth. He was leaning against the opposite wall with his left leg propped up, arms crossed, and a gold tipped cigarette hanging out of his mouth, smoking lazily. He didn’t bother to look at the detective. 

“Jesus, Tinsley, what took you so goddamn long? Were you making the clothes-” the elite stopped. He finally turned his head in the detective’s direction. The moment he locked his gaze onto Tinsley, all the words left his brain, dragging all coherent thought with them. He felt his face burn and his eyes widen against his will. Ricky really couldn’t fucking stand this smart ass in front of him, but god _damn_ was he a looker. It wasn’t fair how pretty he was while half dressed with a bedhead. 

The detective wore a smug smirk, quirking up his right eyebrow. He loved when Ricky was speechless. “You know, an insult normally has a lot more punch when you actually follow through with it.” He crossed his arms as well. 

“Fuck you, cabrón,” the white collar spat, still not fully cognizant. He now was in front of the detective, finger jabbing into his sternum.

Tinsley let out a dangerously low chuckle and made the step into Ricky’s personal space. His right hand made its way onto the middle of the shorter’s chest, using just enough force to push him back. Goldsworth’s spine collided with the wall he was just leaning against next to his own bedroom door, something he was very aware of as the detective slithered his hand up to his hair. A surprised breath escaped his plump lips at the contact. Tinsley leaned in even more to graze the white collar’s ear with his stubble, his breath causing goosebumps to raise all along his golden skin. “Wouldn’t you love to,” he breathed. 

The blue collar suddenly pulled away, wearing a shit eating grin. He tucked his hands in his pockets, feeling very satisfied with himself for being able to reduce the great Ricky Goldsworth to the baffled mess he currently was. The voice in the back of his head warned him that he was playing a very dangerous game, but when had he ever listened to that voice in the first place?

“What the fuck was that!?” Ricky roared, his face again a bright red. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, and his cigarette was in his right hand. Tinsley knew the elite wanted to slap him senseless, but was refraining himself as best as he could. 

“I have no idea what you’re referring to, old sport,” he drawled, shrugging his shoulders and poking his tongue out between his teeth just slightly. The younger’s eyes darted to his mouth, the fury rising in him even more. 

“If you ever think about pulling that shit again, I’m going to rip your nuts off,” he threatened, still flustered from how close Tinsley was to him only moments ago. He really couldn’t tell if he wanted to murder or fuck the detective more. 

The blue collar merely chuckled at the threat. “Sure, sweetheart. How about we go down for breakfast, now? Think you handle that?” 

Ricky smoothed the front of his mint green blazer and sneered at the detective, storming off in the direction of the dining room.

+++

“Buenos días, mi amor. ¿Cómo dormiste anoche?” Ms. Goldsworth asked when she saw her son. He walked over to her so she could kiss his cheek. She wore a strapless floor length emerald green satin dress with a slit up her right leg. She really didn’t let her illness stop her from looking breathtaking.

“Fine, Mamá. What about you?” Ricky asked pleasantly, taking the seat to her right. The smell of food made both boys’ mouths water. 

“Just grand, I only had to wake up three times,” she replied, glancing up from the pool of papers scattered around her. She wore golden wire reading glasses and her hair up in a functional bun. 

“So, the treatment is working, then?” the heir asked, hope in his tone and eyes. The mother gave her son a sad look. Almost pitying. 

“We’ve been over this, cariño,” she breathed tiredly, rubbing at her temple. All the hope fell from the youngest’s features. He went pale, pursing those lips that so rarely stopped moving. 

The Mayor set his plater down front of the heir, removing the silver cover. He revealed a beautiful breakfast of eggs, bacon, and oatmeal that made the detective’s mouth water. The oatmeal wafted off the scent of cinnamon and apples, managing to slightly uplift the detective’s spirits. The scent brought him back to a time with his family. Summer mornings at the lake. The freedom of youth ever present in the sparkling water, scratch of grass beneath his running feet, and the laughter of his mother and siblings.

“Your meal, sir,” Anita chirped, breaking him from his trance. He smiled up at her and muttered a quick thank you in return. This earned him a blush in return. She wasn’t used to the gratitude and, let’s face it, the detective is a gorgeous man. 

Tinsley, while placing the napkin in his lap, glanced over at Ricky. He was glaring daggers at him, a whiteknuckle grip on his fork. The taller responded by simply smirking and throwing Ricky a casual wink. The gilded man rolled his eyes, but his face betrayed him as it turned hot pink. 

Lucy, who witnessed the whole exchange, smiled to herself. “Cariño, sus celos está mostrando,” she teased, provoking her son. 

“¡No estoy celoso! ¿Qué te dio esa idea?” The youngest opposed petulantly. 

Ms. Goldsworth laughed in response and grabbed Ricky’s hand. She smoothed her thumb over the back of his hand. “Eres igual que tu madre, ¿lo sabías?” There was a loving smile on her face, like Ricky was the only thing that mattered to her. Tinsley believed it. 

Ricky returned the smile. “Creo que me han dicho que una o dos veces.” Ms. Goldsworth retracted her hand and went back to her papers. 

“So, when are we leaving for New Orleans?” The detective asked, clueless about the conversation that just took place. At this, the elite slammed his hands on the mahogany table, causing the utensils and chandelier hanging above them to clatter. 

His mother shot him an offended look at his outburst, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was glaring into his plate, like the bacon was to blame. “Ricardo! What was that about?” She demanded. 

“I called the airport this morning hoping to schedule a flight for tonight, but the private jet is broken and won’t be available until next week,” he gritted out, visibly refraining from causing any destruction. 

Nobody responded to that, not knowing how to. The elite looked back and forth between the two others that sat at the table. Ricky pushed up from the table, causing the powder blue chair to fall on its back. 

“Where do you think you’re going, Ricky?” his mother shouted, making him stop in his tracks. 

“I’m going to the airport to buy another plane,” he shot back, only speaking over his shoulder. This sent Lucy into action, who quickly stood up and sized up her son. 

“You will do no such thing!” She removed her reading glasses and had a fury in her eyes that Tinsley had seen before in Ricky. When her son moved his head back to face forward again, she slammed her hand on the table. “Ricardo Leonardo Goldsworth, you look at me right this instant!” 

With a huff, Ricky performed an about-face and attempted to size up his mother. His jaw was clenched along with his fists. Once again, it was clear that Ricky didn’t like to hear the word “no”. Tinsley was sitting in his chair and eating his oatmeal, trying desperately to not be noticed by either family member in fear of being pulled into the impending argument. 

“I’m not waiting a whole week to find him,” the heir stated, crossing his arms over his mint chest. He had an indignant air to him that made the detective’s skin crawl; he really does hate rich kids. 

“Yes, you are, Ricardo. I’m not going to let you drop thousands of dollars just because you can’t wait a few days. You’re going to stay right here and wait, you understand?” she explained, commanding the room.

“Fine. I’ll just drive out there,” he snapped, turning around to walk towards the door again. Suddenly, Lucy burst out into a coughing fit. Everyone in the vicinity froze, turning their attention towards the golden woman. She was doubled over and grabbing onto the plush chair for support, covering her mouth to stop the spray of blood that would soon follow. 

It didn’t work. Blood was soon dripping out from between the cracks in her fingers and onto the white and powder blue rug, the type of colors that blood wouldn’t easily wash out of. The Don fumbled around the table for a napkin to catch the ruby substance, knocking over various tableware and papers, still stuck in her fit. She finally found what she was looking for and placed it quickly over her mouth. Now on her knees, she stuck out her left hand in order to keep some semblance of balance, the one that was coated in blood. 

Finally, the Mayor raced over to her side in order to provide her with the assistance she needed. Tinsley realized that he himself was holding back from helping, fearing that he wasn’t close enough to the situation to offer his help. 

The person who should’ve been the first one to go to her side, however, was frozen in his spot, face like he’d just seen a ghost. Pale. All that golden color drained from his pretty boy face. 

“Ricky,” the madame of the house wheezed through a slight break in her hacking, “you...you listen to-to me.” She held onto the Mayor’s arm as she slowly righted herself. She really knew how to command a room, even when she nearly coughed up her lungs merely seconds ago. 

The heir was visibly shaken. He had to have seen her like that before. From what the detective could tell, she’d been battling this illness for a while now, probably a year or two. Ricky should know by now that his mother was dying. 

“You are going to stay right fucking here in this house, and I don’t want to hear you bitching about it. ¿Entiendes, niño?” she commanded, terrifying in that motherly way that made everyone in the surrounding area quake. 

Ricky numbly nodded at his mother, a blank stare in his glassy eyes. He looked so…. _vulnerable,_ his mind supplied for him. _Oh, how the mighty have fallen._

Ricky promptly made his way up the steps he and Tinsley had come from. When he disappeared from view, the detective moved his view to the other Goldsworth. She collapsed in her chair as soon as the Mayor tipped it back up to its normal position. The hand coated in blood was raised up to pinch the bridge of her nose, and he could swear there was a tear rolling down her cheek. Her dress was now all rumpled and out of order. She was tired, and all that everything was taking out of her was finally starting to catch up to her. 

Ms. Goldsworth glanced quickly to the lanky imposing figure who had his brow knitted so tightly it was almost like he aged twenty years with how many wrinkles had formed between his eyebrows. She took a deep breath as if to compose herself, but it hadn’t worked like she was hoping. It came out shaky and almost weak in a way. 

“Lucy?” Tinsley tentatively asked, fearing more about potentially breaking her rather than making her angry. He’d never been one to know how to handle people at their lowest, but he’d be damned if he didn’t feel the desire to help. She trained her weary brown eyes onto the detective. The tiredness in them, the kind that would present itself when the person was at their absolute witsend, it sobered him right up. 

He didn’t have to say anything else. She understood what he was trying to relay to her. “I’m dying, Detective,” she said simply. She was tired of fighting, tired of all her responsibilities, of her relentless son. He only nodded. It was all he could do.. 

The blue collar cleared his throat, running his hand through his hair. He’d suddenly lost his appetite. 

“If it’s alright with you, I’d like to look over any records you have of Henry,” he proposed gently. Lucy looked over at him, some of her guard returning at the mention of his name. She only nodded with a heavy sigh, straightening herself back up from her reprieve from being Lucy Goldsworth. 

“Of course,” she crossed her legs and threw the blood soaked napkin onto the table. She glanced up at the trusted butler. “Mayor, please take Detective Tinsley to the records he desires.” 

“Of course, Madame.” He bowed and dropped her arm. He turned to the detective and bent himself at the waist, but not as low as when bowed for his employer. “Right this way, sir.” 

As they left, Tinsley glanced back to the heiress. Her eyes were closed and her brow was furrowed, hands folded and resting against her mouth. No one was within at least twenty feet of her.

+++

The detective found himself back in the library, but not in the same spot he was yesterday. Instead of the welcoming and comforting embrace of the earth toned novels, he was reminded of his smothering prison of his office. Filing cabinets surrounded him, encircling him in a trap that he couldn’t find the damn exit to.

“Will that be all, sir?” the Mayor inquired. He was already halfway out the door and clearly didn’t want to be held up. As Tinsley had deduced, mostly from observing how the manor was run, the Mayor was the head of the serving staff. His old age was an indicator of just how long he’d been working for the family, potentially generations. 

“Nothing comes to mind currently, thank you,” the detective dismissed, already starting to dig through the designated files. The back of his mind was whispering to him that _he might know something,_ but Tinsley had a feeling that he wouldn’t say anything. He’d have to figure out a way to get the Mayor to talk to him. 

The drawer opened smoothly, without squealing like his office cabinets.. He was frankly overwhelmed by the amount of manilla staring him in the face, daring him to uncover their secrets. Reading label after label, he fished out the thickest folder from the sea of documentation. _Koizumi, Henry._

He rested the file on his forearm and flipped it open, scanning the contents. The first page was his criminal record, an impressive array of assault charge after assault charge, and one eye catching attempted murder arrest. Curiously, they abruptly stopped in 1898. The detective quickly did the math in his head, making a few assumptions. If he was right, that was twenty-nine years ago, right around the time he (assumed) Ricky was born. 

Under his record was a physical description as well as his age. _Asian, short black hair, dark brown eyes, strong jaw, widder nose, full lips, visible scar on right side of jaw, tan skin, medium build, 5’9”. Born 1874, aged: 24._ Ms. Goldsworth was right, almost every physical feature described could be applied to Ricky, except for the scar. 

He flipped the page and, sure enough, there was his first documented hit. Attached was a newspaper clipping. Dated January 17th, 1898, a man by the name of Johnathan Grayson was murdered in his home with a ball hammer that was found at the scene, his head smashed in and throat almost completely severed. Tinsley suddenly felt dizzy after reading that description, he was forced to picture his haunting dream with all that blood and carnage and _dear God there was so much blood-_ He forced himself away from those memories in order to keep reading the file.

He was a local businessman who sold bicycles, but was speculated to be involved with the Goldsworth’s in some way. The article goes on to state how the accounts are conflicting, but the one that was restated the most was that he was one of Leonardo’s accountants who was embezzling funds. 

Tinsley turned the page to find a report written by Henry himself about an execution on January 21st, 1898. There was no newspaper clipping this time, implying that she hadn’t been found. The victim’s name was Clara James, a former personal maid for Lucy that was caught trying to steal important information from the family. He wasn’t shy about how he killed her, going into detail and probably relished in his disgusting killing. Henry had admitted that he’d used his own tie to strangle her with her hands bound behind her. Koizumi admitted to disposing of her corpse by shoving her body into the wood chipper that was used on a nearby golf course. 

At the end of the report, Tinsley was shuddering with disgust at how much Henry seemed to take pride in his handiwork. He didn’t hold back and clearly didn’t hold any remorse for his brutal acts. He had set the file on top of the filing cabinet he’d pulled the file from, pinching the bridge of his nose. He didn’t want to continue reading, but this was his job and he owed the Goldsworth’s (more notably Lucy) that much. 

The detective kept reading all the recorded accounts of murders, the last one dating February 26th, 1910. At the sight of the date Tinsley felt his blood turn to ice in his veins. The murder itself was insignificant, a brother and sister forced to drink cyanide and then buried under a grocery store parking lot after they were found to have spoken out against Leonardo, but the date of the deaths. It was days before Lucy had claimed she’d last seen Henry and the last time he’d seen his family. 

Tinsley braced his elbows on the top of a filing cabinet, fingers firmly dug into his already messy hair. For what seemed like the hundredth time that day, the detective wished his mind wasn’t so associative. He truly believed that he had no control over the cursed organ as it began to leap to conclusions and unearthed long repressed horrors. He was desperate to tame his erratic thoughts, to escape this seemingly endless maelstrom of darker and darker notions, but there wasn’t an exit in sight. 

“Stop it! Please, just fucking stop!” Tinsley pleaded, his voice cracking. The 97 recorded murders had really taken their toll on the detective, each brutality reminding him of the nightmare. He was on the brink of tears again, having pushed his limits once more. 

“What the fuck are you doing in here?” The voice was quiet, but not in a comforting way. Nevertheless, Tinsley felt like he was able to breathe again as the person was able to momentarily distract from his mind. 

Tinsley whipped around, he’d never thought that the sight of Ricky Goldsworth would be able to bring him such relief. “Oh, Ricky, it’s you.” A small smile broke over the detective’s features, puzzling the heir. He chose to ignore the bizarre behavior from the older man. 

“Yeah it’s me. You shouldn’t be fucking surprised at that,” the gilded man snapped. He’d abandoned his blazer and brandished a cigarette between his fingers. The fury in his eyes matched the level Tinsley saw in them last night before he’d stormed out of the room. 

“Why shouldn’t I? You snuck up on me,” the blue collar debated. Ricky took in the detective’s appearance, appalled at the results. He somehow looked worse than how he found Tinsley this morning. His hair stuck out in unattractive angles as if he’d plowed his hands through it hundreds of times, his skin paler than that of a sickly albino rat, and his eyes alone had seemed to age forty years. 

“As I recall, the agreement was that in order for you to be paid I was to accompany you during every process of the investigation,” the white collar gritted out, his knuckles turning white. Confusion crossed the detective’s face and then realization. 

“Oh.” 

“‘Oh’ is right!” Ricky’s tone was patronizing in a way that ruffled Tinsley’s feathers. “So I should have been informed about you going through the records, _why wasn’t I?_ ” 

“It slipped my mind,” the older dismissed, riffling through more of the files in the open drawer. 

“Slipped your mind, huh? I knew it. You never were qualified to take this job,” Goldsworth criticized. “You’re nothing but an incompitent coward who does nothing but chase after cheaters.” 

Tinsley slammed the drawer shut, the sound ricocheting off the walls and amplifying it tenfold. He knew that he shouldn’t let Ricky’s words get to him, but his emotions are flayed and his mind is betraying him at every possible moment today. 

The elite, knowing full well he hit a nerve, kept going. “You know, I bet that little niece of yours wishes she had a better guardian than you, seeing as you hardly can take care of yourself. In fact, I bet she wishes that it was you who got killed that night, not her parents.” 

“How do you know about that?” the detective growled, using every ounce of restraint he has to not just tear Goldswoth’s stomach open. 

The white collar ignored the question. “You’re nothing but a failure.”

Tinsley finally snapped. “You know what? Fine. I’m a fucking failure, a coward, hell, even a poor excuse of an uncle to Jeneane. But what are _you_ , Ricky? You flaunt your family’s money in the desperate hope that it will distract every onlooker from noticing your own flaws. Well guess what, gilded boy, I saw through the riches. You’re nothing but a petulant shallow asshole with a god complex and daddy issues!” 

For a moment, nothing was spoken. For a moment, it was perfectly silent. 

“You want to know what I learned after suffering through your daddy’s file?? I’ll fucking tell you what I learned.” Tinsley grabbed the folder and chucked it in Ricky’s direction. Papers went flying in every direction, the majority of them landing on the floor in front of the heir. “I learned that you’re _just_ like your father. A manipulative, materialistic murderer.” 

Before the detective could comprehend what was happening, Ricky sucker punched him. Tinsley recoiled, hand flying up to the spot where Ricky’s ring impacted with his cheek. It was wet. The detective inspected his hand and, sure enough, he found blood. Tinsley was a man slow to anger and even slower to violence, but the elite had just floored the accelerator. 

Without thinking about the consequences too much, the detective retaliated, striking Ricky square in the jaw. The gilded man stumbled back from the impact. If he weren’t so furious, Goldsworth would’ve allowed himself to be impressed by how hard of a hit it was, but it wasn’t the time for that. 

So much rage was boiling over in both men that it was surprising that they weren’t actively trying to slaughter each other. What wasn’t surprising, however, was the fight that was about to ensue. The elite double-tapped Tinsley’s nose, sending him back a few steps. Blood was slowly creeping down into the detective’s open mouth and still flowing from his cheek, but he was only focused on his opponent in front of him. He wanted to make this supercilious prick bleed and make that pretty face match his hideous personality. 

Goldsworth was able to block Tinsley’s blow to his ribs, but not his mouth. The force was so great Ricky feared that his teeth had shattered, or at least been knocked loose. To his relief, he felt all of them intact after running his tongue over them. The lanky bastard managed to make him bite his tongue, piercing the skin enough to make it bleed significantly. In a rash act of pure spite, the younger spit the blood from his mouth in the detective's face. 

“ _Ah! Bastard!_ ” Tinsley barked, wiping off the mixture of Goldsworth’s fluids, disgust crawling all along his skin. 

While he was distracted, Ricky landed a kick on Tinsley’s stomach. It sent him tumbling into the filing cabinets behind him, finding purchase with the crook of his arm on top of one of the metal drawer sets. He clenched his abdomen, wincing in pain and letting out a hiss. He didn’t stay like that for long, very aware of the vulnerable position he was in. 

Ricky was advancing on him, unadulterated rage seering in his eyes. The blue collar waited until he was close enough, his heart thrumming intensely with each footfall. When the white collar was mere feet away, that’s when Tinsley swept Ricky’s legs out from under him. He was sent sprawling onto his left side, ending up on his back. 

Before Goldsworth could try to recover, Tinsley was straddling his stomach. Knees pressed into his arms so that he couldn’t defend himself, circulation already becoming weak from the weight. For the first time in what felt like years, Ricky felt pure terror course through his veins causing it to turn ice cold. He was on the receiving end of helplessness, not being the cause of it this time. He could only lay down and wait for when Tinsley decided enough was enough. 

Clenching his tie and pulling the elite’s head off the cement floor, the detective punched him. Again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. He knew that he was being cruel. He could feel the blood pouring out of the wounds he was opening. He knew that Ricky’s face would bruise for days after this. He knew that, but he also knew that this criminal needed to be taught a lesson. _Maybe,_ he thought, _maybe now he’ll know when to shut the hell up._

Tinsley released his hold on the silk tie, nothing keeping it up anymore. A loud _thud_ emulated from the impact of his head against the concrete floor. He sat there for a moment, his breathing heavy and sweat slicking his skin. The detective looked down at the battered man he was on top of, the red a stark contrast from the golden tint of his skin as it bled out of his nose and mouth. The boy frankly looked pathetic, eyes barely open but a pleading in them to stop, mouth slightly agape. 

Something about seeing Ricky in that state sparked something that felt horrifyingly like guilt in Tinsley. Finally, he got off of Goldsworth, still thoroughly pissed at him, but not wanting to inflict pain anymore. “You stay the hell away from me, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop myself like that again.” 

Tinsley adjusted his blazer, blood smearing onto the fabric as he pulled down the cuff on his left sleeve. He swiftly marched out of the room, not bothering to clean up his mess. In fact, the detective didn’t even cast a glance at his carnage, the damaged boy laying in his spot on the ground. 

Ricky was wincing in pain every time he moved, only adding to his resentment for Tinsley. No one had even given him a dose of his own medicine before. He wanted blood. He wanted to inflict pain and suffering. He wanted to murder. 

So, when he walked out of that room, he didn’t go to his room to clean himself up. Instead, he went straight into his mother’s office and stole the book from her locked drawer. The lock didn’t actually work, but only four people knew that. The worn leather was heavy in his aching fingers. The smooth surface of the cover was his only friend at times, the only thing he cared about at times. 

Slamming the drawer shut, he stormed out of the front door, paying no mind to the torrential downpour as he made a b-line for his mercedes. 

The detective watched from his widow as the dark figure of Ricky Goldsworth trudged his way to his car. Even with the smear of rain obscuring his view, Tinsley knew it was him, no one else was foolish enough to venture out in this weather. As the blue collar observed the black vehicle speeding off the property, he was completely ignorant to the fact that he was the catalyst to the goriest slaughter Goldsworth would ever generate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this look longer than normal, I lost motivation halfway through 
> 
> Have you noticed the theme with the titles yet? (If you have you get a virtual hug from me but don't tell the others what it is pls ;) )


	4. Product of a Murderer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw//blood, torture, death, slurs
> 
> I did not hold back while writing this chapter and took graphic depictions of violence to its most extreme meaning. There are also slurs used against Gays and Hispanics in this chapter, but they're used sparingly. This is your warning, please proceed with caution.

Ricky gripped the leather of the steering wheel so tightly, all the blood drained from his knuckles. He’d never been so thirsty for violence before in his life. He wanted blood, and he _always_ got what he wanted. 

It occurred to him that he wasn’t even sure where he was going; he was just driving aimlessly through the northern downpour. The heavy patter from the droplets sprinkling the car were deafening. The windshield wipers were set in overdrive to sweep the water from his view.

He didn’t want to, but he had to pull over to look up the address of the first name not crossed off in the book. 

The low light from the streetlights made it hard to read the looping letters on the yellowed pages, but he was determined tonight. He could feel the blood beginning to dry on his face, fueling his anger tenfold. 

When he was finally able to make out the name and address, Ricky put the car into gear and floored the accelerator, not bothering to check if anyone was around as he sped off. 

He was gritting his teeth, seething with anger. A growl was involuntarily snarling from his lips as he slammed the gas pedal. 

Ricky was now going one hundred over the speed limit, ignoring every stop sign that whizzed past him in a red blur. The police wouldn’t dare try to stop him. After all, he signed their paychecks. 

Finally, after four excruciating long minutes, he screeched to a halt in front of Cassidy and William Dunn’s residence. Once transporters for his family’s liquor empire, the siblings quickly fell from the ranks when a trustworthy source leaked that the two were using homophobic and racially charged slurs towards Ricky behind his back. They’d been added to the book three months ago after they were fired. 

Rick had been saving this pair for a special occasion. You see, he wanted to make their stomachs into coin purses as soon as he’d heard about the things they’d said about him, but he’d been in Italy at the time. 

Now, within feet of the two and a trunk full of torture devices, it was the perfect circumstances. He knew the Dunn’s would be the best therapy.  
The pouring rain battered down upon him as he exited the car, but he clearly didn’t seem to mind. Actually, the cool water soothed the forming bruises on his face. 

Goldsworth unlocked his trunk and gazed upon his impressive array of weaponry. He had a .38 caliber revolver in his holster at all times, along with a dagger he concealed on his ankle. Nothing fancy and gaudy like the usual route he goes with everything he owns; the blade was a simple silver with rubies inlaid along the fuller of the blade that got smaller the further they went, but stopped halfway down. It was about seven inches long with a sturdy dark stone handle that had been polished to perfection. His Abuelo gifted it to him on his tenth birthday. 

The elite grabbed his leather duffle bag that held his favorite munitions and slammed the trunk closed, not bothering to lock the car. 

Facing the house, he did a preliminary scan of the property. Their car was resting patiently in the driveway, the lights were shining on the second level, and their neighbors were far enough to not hear the screaming. That, coupled with the fact that the storm was raging loud enough to rouse the dead. 

With no further thought, Ricky walked straight up to the front porch. Setting down his bag, he unzipped it and removed a pair of crisp, white leather gloves. He’d never be rid of the oncoming stains, but this was a special occasion, and he wanted something to remember it by. 

Picking up the bag once more, he took a step back, inspecting the door. Without warning, Ricky violently kicked it in. The splintering wood cracked loudly enough to be heard above the torrential downpour. Slivers of brown stained poplar scattered along the entrance of the home. 

Ricky stepped into the house, calmly scanning the surrounding rooms. The house wasn’t big, no more than a glorified bungalow. It was plainly decorated in drab browns and whites, no color or any art adorning the walls. Just depressing.

A faint voice originated from up the staircase. Ricky’s adrenaline skyrocketed; he could barely contain his excitement. He wanted so _badly_ to just bolt up those steps and plunge his knives into the two, but he knew that even more satisfaction would occur if one of them tried to run away from him upon spotting him. He waited approximately one minute before William descended down to the first floor. 

Ricky drank up the fear that bloomed into Dunn’s eyes as he realized who just broke into his house, eyes going wide and mouth falling open. A gasp escaped his lips. “Goldsworth!”

He couldn’t help the predatory look that broke out onto his face. “William, so glad to see you,” he purred. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” he blurted, panic setting into his veins. Ricky could smell the fear emanating off him; it was intoxicating. 

“Oh, I thought I’d just pay you and Cassidy a long overdue visit.” The predatory laugh that slipped out of his lips was enough to send good old Willy scrambling up the stairs. 

He was quick, those thin legs deceptively strong. Goldsworth was faster. Within the blink of an eye, he drew his revolver from his hip and shot at Dunn’s knee. The bullet hit its mark; the man wailed in pain and fell down the wooden steps, gripping at the hole where his kneecap used to be. 

Now sprawled out on the floor, William tried to recover and make for the second floor, but couldn’t put any weight on his right knee. His brown eyes were swimming with fear as the elite casually made his way towards him. 

“Cassy! Ru- _FUCK!_ ” The ignorant man was cradling his knee, the blood pouring down his shin. His hands were coated. He cried out when Ricky shoved the barrel of the gun into the gaping wound. 

Just as the moron was about to reel up and punch him in the jaw, the butt of the pistol cracked against his temple. It wasn’t enough force to kill him or even knock him out, just stun him. The blood on the barrel of the gun splattered across the white collar’s face when he pistol whipped Dunn; it was still warm. 

With William unconscious, there was no one to protect Cassidy. The gilded man made his way up the staircase, following the light glowing from one of the rooms. “Cassidy! Come on, dollface! I thought you were above cowering behind your brother!”

He stood in front of the painted white door, the lock no doubt engaged. Locks don’t stop Ricky Goldsworth. Aiming his revolver, he pulled the trigger. _BANG!_

Giving the door a gentle push, it swung open with a quiet squeak. The room didn’t contain the woman he was looking for, but he knew she wouldn’t be out in the open. She was hiding in the closet right next to the bed, probably with some kind of weapon. But he didn’t go straight for the closet. He came here to blow off some steam, so he was going to toy with his prey. 

“Cassy, darling, I know you’re in here,” he taunted, his voice singsong as he scanned the room. 

“Don’t you want to see if your brother is alive?” Ricky began to laugh gleefully, “I left him in a pretty big puddle of his own blood.” 

He couldn’t help the grin that broke out on his face when he thought about how he left William knocking on death’s door. It wasn’t the truth, but the thought was pleasant. 

Just then, he heard the door swing open behind him and saw Cassidy in her underwear charging at him with a switchblade. His adrenaline skyrocketed. 

Goldsworth was able to grab her by the arm and twist it sharply. A delightful cracking noise originated from the extremity. She screamed out and dropped the knife, but not before she was able to scratch open Ricky’s arm. 

“Whew! You nearly got me there!” He inspected his arm, noticing the newly formed cut that was no longer than a few inches and not deep at all. Regardless, it added to his euphoria. “Thanks for the rush, darling!”

Emitting a yell, he cracked his neck like one would when getting ready for a fight. The crazed look in his eye leaked into his smile. He truly was terrifying in a life threatening way, the bruises on his face helping his case. 

He snapped his head towards the sister, a plan forming in his clouded mind. “Up and attem, Cassy! Willy’s awaitin’!” the elite chimed, gripping her broken arm like a vice. Tears streamed down the blonde’s face as she shrieked out in agony. The elite’s maniacal laughter mixed in with her wails as he dragged her down the hall and towards the steps. 

“You bastard!” Cassidy yelled when her brother came into view. She tried to pull away, but Ricky only tightened his grip and twisted, causing even more pain to shoot through her nerves. 

“You wanna see him so bad? Be my guest!” The white collar let go of her arm, but not before throwing her body down the incline. She was sent tumbling down the dark wood, landing right next to her sibling. 

“Willy? Willy are you ok?” Cassidy interrogated after a moment as she attempted to get up from the floor. Every movement made them both wince. 

Goldsworth slowly descended the steps, watching the pair try to assess their wounds. Cassidy, being the healthier one, was trying to dress William’s gunshot wound without throwing up. Both of them were squeamish when it came to blood, it seemed. Pathetic. That was the best part. 

Staying on the last step, he waited with his hands in his pockets. Cassidy turned her head towards his direction in which Ricky responded by simply driving his foot into her jaw. The force made her fall backwards and crack her head on the hardwood floor, her blonde hair spilling around her. 

“You son of a whore! Don’t touch her!!” Good old Willy barked out, his stun fully worn off now. Ricky only stepped over the disoriented Dunn sister to retrieve his bag by the front door. 

Making his way towards the kitchen and attached dining room, the gilded man pulled two chairs into the open expanse of the kitchen. William could do nothing but observe as his former employer set up his plan. 

Once he was satisfied with the set, the white collar sauntered back over to the pair. He retrieved Cassidy first, an array of colorful insults sent his way as he tied her to the dining room chair, making the restraint on her broken arm tighter than the other. 

After she was secured, he dragged William into his chair. He was more difficult to handle, but anytime he became almost too much to bear, Ricky just applied pressure to his bullet wound. 

“Alright, and are you nice and cozy?” Ricky taunted, patting the injured leg. It was still bleeding profusely. If something wasn’t done soon, William would die before the fun even began. 

So, the elite used some extra rope he had stashed in his bag and made a makeshift tourniquet. His next move was to wake up sleeping beauty, by extracting a cast iron frying pan from where it was hanging above the island and whacking right against her cheek. The pan rang out in a melodic note that gave Ricky a surge of satisfaction. 

“Rise and shine, darling! You don’t want to miss out on the best part,” Goldsworth purred, a deceptively bright smile on his features. The most chilling part was that it was genuine. He was _elated._

“Okay!” He clapped his hands together excitedly, the white leather already stained with red spots. “Normally, I would go into the details of why you were in the book and your offences, but I think you damn well know why.”

“Yeah, I remember. You’re a little faggot with no spine,” William sneered at the man acting as their god. Ricky held their lives in his hands, and he was drunk with power. 

The elite took the butt of his revolver and slammed it into his injured knee. “ _Shut the fuck up you racist cunt! My patience is already pretty fucking thin as it is._ ” 

William didn’t speak for a while, only wailing in pain. 

“Finally, it’s time for my favorite part,” Goldsworth whispered with what could only be described as pure glee. 

Placing his bag down on the kitchen island, he dug through an array of vials and knives until he touched what he was looking for: a Black&Decker electric drill. He lugged the heavy silver metallic power tool, holding the thick cord in his other hand. 

After he plugged in the drill, he turned it over to inspect it. He checked to make sure he used a 0 drill bit, squeezing the trigger to test it. Once he was satisfied, Ricky sauntered over in front of the siblings. 

It was then, when he was gazing at both of them, that he noticed both of them were in their underwear. Cassidy in wine red lace, a satin bow hanging calmly between her breasts down to her navel. It didn’t take a Newton to figure out what was transpiring between the two in the dark. 

“Oh, you sick _fucks_ ,” the white collar gagged, shaking his head at the sudden revelation. It took a lot to make Ricky sick to his stomach. For the love of god, he tortures and murders people as a hobby. 

The pair had nothing to say, their secret out in the open now, merely trying to hide their faces in shame. Ricky felt a sense of duty to wipe these two off the map. It was more than just for his own reasons of hatred and spite, but for the sake of humanity as a whole. 

Squeezing the trigger of the drill again, the loud whir of the engine caused William to jump in his seat. He honestly looked like he was about to cry while Cassidy was seething in anger. 

“So, who wants to go first?” the heir asked, an air of false politeness wafting off of him in an overly sweet manner. Neither of the cowards moved.. 

The elite heaved a big sigh, did they think that if they didn’t volunteer he would just stop? Pick up and leave? The thought made him laugh at least, bitterly and distant. 

“No takers?” Ricky tried, but to no avail. These idiots just wouldn’t budge. “How…disappointing. Guess I’ll just have to pick, then.” 

He raised the heavy drill to point it at Cassidy, “Eenie.”

Goldsworth swung the power tool to William, “Meenie”

“Miney.” 

“Mo.” 

The absolute horror that befell William at the realization that he was going to be the one tortured was enough to make any man intoxicated. A manic laughter crawled from his throat as good old Willy yelled out and tried to fight his restraints. 

Truly, nothing could be funnier to him then when one of his victims tried to fight against their fate. Sometimes, for a little added fun, he would entertain the notion of letting them be able to save their lives if they’d apologize for whatever they did wrong, but never go through on his promise. The hope that just drains from their eyes when they realize that he was lying to them was just...indescribably euphoric. 

You’d expect the best part to be the “light leaving your eyes”, what most killers write home about, but not to Ricky. The best part was the ever mounting dread as the person slowly began to realize _there is no way out_. 

With each step, William became more erratic. He tried to twist out of his ties, yell out for help, and even plead for Ricky to stop. He didn’t. 

Standing beside the Dunn brother, making sure to not block Cassy darling’s view of the show, the elite gripped the man’s right arm with his left hand like a vice. His knuckles turned white while William tried even harder to pull his hand out of the rope. “Ricky! Please, I’m begging you, stop! I’m sorry for what we said about you, please, _I’m sorry!_ ”

Goldsworth didn’t listen. Any words spoken while pleading for your life were meaningless. They’d say anything you’d want to hear. 

The screaming that ensued made the white collar feel high. The turning of the motor wasn’t loud enough to drown out the sound of William’s skin being drilled open. The ripping sound was wet as his blood spilled out of the twisting hole Ricky just created. 

This was a different feeling than when you drilled into a piece of wood. Wood is rigid; it has no give. Flesh, however... flesh is so malleable, so _willing_ to be pulled in along with the drill, almost to a fault. Sometimes if you weren’t cautious, the muscle tissue would twist up and get tangled in the drill bit. Kind of like long hair caught up in a motor. 

He’d hit bone. Ricky could feel that same rigid wood feeling. He could hear the splintering. 

The screaming turned to sobbing as the gilded man purposefully ripped out the bit, his skin caught up in the groove. The hole he created wasn’t big at all; he’d used the smallest drill bit for a reason.

A tiny bead of blood no bigger than a nail head dripped down from Willy’s forearm. It wasn’t as much as the ignorant man had expected, but Ricky wasn’t _close_ to being finished. 

Once Dunn realized that the bootlegging murderer was going in again with the drill, he tried to jerk his arm away. But, unfortunately for good old Willy, his former employer had already broken the skin.

The sharp movement of his arm caused the drill bit to catch on his skin, tearing it open along the center of his forearm. The gash was half the length of the extremity, exposing the deep pink chords of his muscle. 

Pleasantly surprised, Goldsworth gasped like he’d just received incredible news. 

“Oh, did I forget to tell you? Silly me,” the elite regarded, feigning innocence. “The more you struggle, the more damage you inflict on yourself.” 

A wide smile curled his lips back. “But if you want to fight back, that’s fine by me.”

William met this man’s eye, a disbelief written all over his face. But when Goldsworth stared back, he didn’t see a man at that moment. All he saw was an unquenchable thirst for blood and violence that would haunt him for the rest of his life. All two hours left. 

Eleven holes later, Ricky was satisfied with this instrument. He threw the tool onto the kitchen island as he watched the thirteen wounds cascade with a steady waterfall of blood. It was mesmerizing to him as he focused on the way it dripped into the growing pool on the floor. 

William’s hard breathing broke him from his trance, a whine of agony slipping out between his gritted teeth. Cassidy was crying out to him to see if her brother was ok, struggling with her restraints and screaming when she moved her broken arm. 

The elite merely rolled his eyes. _What an overreaction._ It wouldn’t kill Willy, it was far too early in the game for that. 

“How’s everyone doing? Swell, I assume?” the heir posited with a voice that mimicked a tour guide’s. And oh, if looks could kill. Both Dunn’s were now glaring daggers at him, only resulting in the white collar to burst out laughing. 

He doubled over, clutching at his abdomen, his entire body shaking with the force of the maniacal chortling. The looks on their faces… Oh, it was hilarious! 

The looks, they promised pain and harm upon him. There was no possible way that would be fulfilled. 

“Good, good,” Goldsworth managed after collecting himself somewhat. He wiped the tears that formed in his waterline as his laughs subsided, hand still placed on his abdomen. 

“Thanks for the laugh, guys. I was having a really rough night,” the elite sighed, patting William on the right arm, causing a yelp of pain. 

The gilded man inhaled deeply, closing his eyes to enjoy the experience thoroughly. The blood saturated air left a metallic tang on his senses. He sighed out contently. The bible lied to you. That, right there, was nirvana. 

“Alright, back to business.”

With a flourish, Ricky turned on his heel and yanked open the lips of his bag still sitting on the counter. So many options: a Louisville slugger, various knives, barbed wire, salt, hydrochloric acid, brass knuckles, a hacksaw, pruning shears, an axe, pliers, kerosine, a lighter... Nothing seemed to stick out.

Frustrated, the white collar violently shoved the leather off the counter with a scream. The contents spilled out of the open zipper, clattering onto the linoleum. 

William jumped while Cassidy only snapped her head in the direction of the sound. That’s when the bootlegger saw it. 

The cheesegrater sat alone on the imitation granite next to the sink. The incandescent bulbs illuminated the divots in the silver metal, the handle a crisp white. The object was calling his attention, eager to be used. 

A twisted idea seeded it way into his mind, causing Goldsworth to cock an eyebrow. 

As soon as he noticed the grater, Cassidy did too. Her gaze bounced back and forth between Ricky and the utensil. When the murderer locked eyes with her, Cassidy figured out his next move. “No!”

Goldsworth threw her a wink that would’ve melted anyone. He walked with his hands tucked behind his back, a spring in his step. Ricky was giddy, anyone could see that. 

Now in front of the sink, the heir removed his hand from behind him and gracefully wrapped his kidskin gloves around the handle of the grater. The bright red stains were a stark contrast against the pure white of the plastic. He knew he’d made the right choice wearing his white gloves. 

Striding over to Cassy like a bat out of hell, he ignored the stream of insults that were flung at him. She was not one to take anything while lying down. If Cassidy Dunn had something on her mind, she shared it. After all, it’s what got her into this situation in the first place. 

Ricky stopped right in front of the woman, towering over her. “You get the fuck away from me, spick!” 

The insult only fueled his bloodlust. He slowly got to his knees in front of Cassidy’s thighs. The Dunn sister’s ankles were both tied to the legs of the chair, spreading her legs wide open. 

He never understood the appeal of being in a situation like this, between a woman’s legs. Goldsworth had heard a lot of bragging over the years of how great it was to have sex with a woman, a symbol of power if you’d gotten enough women. But when he found himself in the position to sleep with a girl, he couldn’t go through with it. It just felt wrong. Not appealing at all.

So, as he was kneeling in between Cassidy’s thighs, he had to keep himself from backing out and retreating. _The best is yet to come, hold your ground._

Finally, he raised the cheesegrater up to the skin on her inner thigh, letting it just sit there for a moment. In a fruitless attempt to save herself, the ignorant woman moved her leg as far away from the metal as she could, which was only an inch or so. 

His left arm was draped casually on her right leg, his right elbow digging into the malleable flesh. She wasn’t begging for forgiveness or pleading for him to spare her, and Goldsworth had to admit to himself, he respected her for that. Even if what she said was a beacon of her ignorance and unprecedented prejudices, she stood by it. 

But that changed nothing. She was still a racist and homophobic souless rat with a taste for incest that deserved to have her blood splattered on every wall in that kitchen. 

Suddenly, Ricky gripped Dunn’s inner thigh and began to push the sharpened edges into her soft flesh. The hundreds of blades serrated the skin jaggedly as they found purchase. 

Cassidy was screaming knuckles going white as she clawed at the end of the arm rests. Each pass of the grater shredded more skin, her blood slicking up the utensil. 

After the inside of Cassidy’s thigh was thoroughly grated, the elite removed the cheesegrater. Instinctively, the heir ran his fingertips along the length of Dunn’s thigh. He picked up the blood gushing from her mangled flesh on his glove and left behind four perfect lines.

“You’re-you’re a sick bastard,” she spat at her former boss, clearly failing to see the irony. 

All Goldsworth did in response was breathe out a laugh. He turned over the grater in his hand, inspecting it. The side with smaller but more divots was now clogged with miniscule chunks of skin and blood. So, he had no choice but to use the other side. It had half the amount of divots, but made up for that in size, the holes being twice as large. 

The killer flipped the cheesegrater. A shiver of anticipation went down his spine as he pressed the metal onto the top of Cassy’s other leg. 

She managed a hiss before Ricky went back to work causing permanent damage to the woman. Unlike before, she was screaming so much sweeter seeing as the instrument was being dug into a larger portion of her body. Ricky still went slowly, taking his sweet time savoring the moment. 

The white collar especially enjoyed when some blood spurted onto his face. By now there was no salvaging the white of the gloves, they were completely stained red. 

Once that side of the cheesegrater had also been clogged, the gilded man tossed the tool away. It clattered on the linoleum, dislodging some chunks of shredded skin as it streaked red along the tile. 

Sweat was glistening off her forehead, her hair sticking to her cheeks in thin strands. Cassidy’s breathing was deep and labored, gritting her teeth to help suspend the pain in her legs. 

Ricky rose from his crouching position, a blank expression across his face. His knees cracked as he extended the muscles, standing to his full height. 

The elite hinged his neck in a sharp movement, the bones loudly cracking. His hands stayed stationary at his sides, a small drop of blood slowly rolling its way down his gloves. A deep sigh emitted from the bowels of his lungs. 

Rolling his shoulders, Goldsworth returned to his scattered tools on the linoleum. He carefully considered his next move, running possible scenarios through his head. Picking up a smaller knife, a peel knife, the heir tossed it up into the air. It twirled around in an extravagant flourish, landing in his hand with practiced grace. 

The Dunn’s owned a gas stove. It seemed to be a fairly new installment, the three burners set in a geometric pattern. The white paint on the metal had minimal blemishes on it, save for one small charred spot. The dials were all turned off, pointing towards the Almighty. 

When the bootlegger twisted the dial to high, he left a smear of blood on the white plastic. The starter clicked dutifully and then the flames erupted with a soft _foom_ sound. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed movement. It seemed that Cassy darling was able to wiggle her way out of her restraints. She was working on untying the rope around her ankles, biting down on her lip to silence her cries of pain. 

She hadn’t realized that she was spotted yet, concentrating on her knot. Calmly and slowly, Ricky reached for the Louisville slugger laying on the floor. 

Cassidy was successful. She tugged the thick twine loose and glanced towards her attacker to check that she was clear for escape. When she was satisfied, Ms. Dunn made a break for the door. 

Her shaved thighs proved to be a hindrance as she was unable to go her top speed without causing major agony. The rain was beating down onto the vestibule of the house, the door still ajar from her former boss’s illegal entrance. Her salvation was _right there_ , just a few yards away. She had to get out, call for help, _something_. 

She never made it. 

Ricky caught up to her rather easily, not even having to break into a jog. Calmly, he stepped in front of her path. She didn’t even hear him approaching. There was no way to escape. 

The elite was wearing that sickly sweet grin; it was all she could see. He flicked his wrist so that the bat would create a circle motion, always favoring a flare for the dramatic. Once the handle was gripped in both hands, he swung the heavy wood at her right knee with all the strength he had. 

The sound of the bat colliding with her patella was similar to if Babe Ruth hit a home run that flew 500 feet into the outfield. _Unforgettable._ She screeched, loud enough to cover the roar of thunder that clapped overhead. 

Cassidy looked up at the man in horror, only to be once again faced with the excruciating pain of the full force of a bat onto her face. She could feel her teeth dislodge from her gums, falling onto her tongue and down her throat. She involuntarily swallowed, conscious of the slow descent they experienced down her esophagus. The cartilage in her nose fractured, the warm blood spewing down her lips. 

The force Ricky exerted caused her to fall back onto the wooden flooring that did no favors in cushioning her fall. The blonde stayed on the ground. Streams of blood flowed out from her mouth and nose, falling down onto the floor below. She was sputtering, trying to breathe without inhaling her own blood. The spot where her head impacted the floor had blood slowly creeping from the wound, staining the hair a gorgeous red. 

She wouldn’t last more than a few minutes at this rate, she was too damaged. The Dunn sister most definitely had received brain damage, aside for the preexisting. Goldsworth made damn sure to hit her with everything he had and it seemed to be paying off. 

The gilded man kneeled down beside her. He inspected her face, which was a lot more appealing to him now with all the red pouring from her orifices. Gently, he moved a strand of hair from her ear. 

“Give Lucifer my regards, won’t you?” he whispered, giving her a cheeky wink. 

The white collar took the bat again and began to smash her head in. Blow, after blow, after blow, after blow, after blow, after blow, after blow, after blow, after blow. She was well passed dead by the time he was satiated. 

She was unrecognizable, just a pile of viscera, hair, and blood on the floor. Her skull had been pulverized into splinters. Small deposits of flesh and organs had jumped from the pile to the immediate area around her head. 

Cassidy Dunn’s blood was splattered on the walls, ceiling, and all over Ricky Goldsworth. His bruising face was adorned with a satisfied smile, the droplets of blood flung on the skin in a slanted path. 

The heir wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his blood-soaked glove, smearing a bright streak along his bronze skin. 

“One down,” the mobster breathed out, trying to catch his breath from all the energy he exerted caving in Cassidy’s face. 

Breathing deeply, he walked back to William, who was still bound in the kitchen. His face was pale and his eyes were the size of dinner plates. From his spot in the room, he’d had a front row seat to Goldsworth brutally cracking his sister’s head open like a pinata. It looked like the bastard was about to wretch up his dinner. 

Even as the gilded man threw the Louisville slugger down in front of William, the Dunn brother couldn’t tear his eyes away from the heap of gore that was once Cassidy Dunn. 

“Beautiful, isn’t she? I can see why you couldn’t keep your hands off each other,” the white collar taunted. He casually leaned his arm on the back of William’s chair, like he didn’t just viciously bludgeon a human to death mere seconds before. 

“In fact, it all makes sense to me now. You loved your little sister so much that you couldn’t bear the thought of anybody else having her, taking her innocence.” 

William slowly began to register what Ricky was saying to him, it was building the rage inside of him bit by bit. 

“You don’t know anything!” Dunn yelled, his face turning a nice shade of red. 

Goldsworth smirked. Willy’s reaction was evidence enough that he, in fact, hit the nail on the head. 

“What was it like? Being her first. Was it her idea? Or did you?” 

William stayed silent. 

“Ahhh, I see. You forcefully took her, didn’t you?” The white collar narrated, succeeding in slithering into his mind. 

“Shut the fuck up! That’s never happened!!” The helpless man protested, trying to lunge at his former boss. 

“I bet she screamed,” he continued, now with both hands resting on William’s forearms, leaning into his face. “And I bet you enjoyed it like the sick bastard you are.” 

As hypocritical as that sentence was, Ricky hit a nerve. He walked away from the man spewing angered comments at him in favor of retrieving the knife that still sat on the open flame. 

The metal was a dull red with a rainbow film surrounding the red area. The heat hadn’t quite reached the handle. Still hot to the touch, but tolerable. 

There was no ceremony to the way he handled the weapon this time, only a twirl through his fingers as he encroached Dunn’s space. 

“What are you doing?” The ignorant man’s voice cracked in fear. It was only a matter of time before the gilded man would get bored and kill him. 

The elite stayed silent as he stalked over to the right side of Willam’s chair, giving a small sniff as he placed his left hand on the top of Dunn’s bald head. 

“Stop it, stop it! Don’t touch me!!” the former employee screamed. 

Goldsworth remained silent. He used his thumb to pry open the ignorant man’s eyelid, knife still in his right hand. 

The heir didn’t hesitate as he pressed the smoldering side of the knife into William Dunn’s eye. The metal hissed as it made contact with the soft tissue of the eye, harmonizing with the screams emitting from the victim’s throat. 

He only pulled the knife away once he knew that the eye was useless, until he’d burned straight to the lens. Tears were beginning to stream down his cheeks as he tried to close his eyes. 

“Why are you _doing this?!_ ” Willy cried, fed up with the murderer. 

A small giggle that slowly began to crescendo into a full blown manic chortle flowed out of the rich bastard’s mouth. 

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?!” Ricky threw both hands up in the air, his head tilted to the side. 

He provided no further explanation. Instead, he took the still hot knife and shoved it into his other eye, leaving the man completely blind. It was a great metaphor, really, for his intolerance towards other people’s skin color and sexuality; being completely blind to the world around him. 

Once again, the mobster stood back and admired his work. The spot where William’s eyes once were now were red all across the entire organ, tears falling down his face. He’d managed to slice the corner of his eye, causing William’s tears to mix in with the blood tracking down his face. 

“Beautiful,” the elite breathed under his breath. 

Red was slowly sloshing from his arm still, staining the side of his leg and the tile below. The gunshot wound was accented by a long streak of dried blood that ran the entire length of his shin. Willy’s skin was glistening with sweat along his entire body and his breathing labored, the rise and fall of his chest highlighting the different angles of his torso in the artificial light. 

It was in that moment, gazing upon his art project, that the heir decided the canvas needed a little more color. It was far too blank in its current state of being. 

Taking the knife one last time, the gilded man thrust it into Dunn’s leg that wasn’t shot. He screamed out in pain and surprise, though it would’ve startled him even if he could see Ricky, he moved so suddenly. 

Leaving the blade stuck in the ignorant man’s thigh like Excalibur, Goldsworth riffled through the contents of his bag to find the perfect brush. And there, laying under the handle of the axe, was the tool calling his name, begging to be used. 

“Wh-what are you doing?” Dunn called, the most terrified he’d even been in his life. Ricky didn’t acknowledge him, not wanting to give him any indication of his plan and ruin the fun. 

Returning to his project, he stood behind the man. Ricky held in his hands a length of barbed wire, wrapped meticulously around his hands in a practiced manner, and spaced apart enough to match the width of William’s broad shoulders. 

“Please, Mr. Goldworth, I-” Dear old Willy broke out into a sob. “I’m sorry, ok? Please just, please let me go.”

The serial killer let his victim plead for his life, it caused him a twisted sense of joy. It was too perfect. 

“You already killed my sister in front of me, isn’t that enough?”

This time, the white collar responded. By gouging the barbed wire into the center of the brother’s pectoral muscles. Of course it wasn’t enough, Ricky’s bloodlust was insatiable. 

“Darling,” the gilded man whispered, leaning right into William’s ear. “I’ve killed and tortured so many people it would make your weak-willed ass faint at the thought, for my own form of entertainment mind you. Don’t even _begin_ to think your bastard sister is enough to fill that need.” 

A strangled noise escaped through Dunn’s gritted teeth, his hands balling into fists. His head jerked back and landed on his former boss’s shoulder, a reflex to the pain. 

The elite pulled back, offended by the touch. How _dare_ he even think about touching Ricky. No one did that unless you were his mother or invited to. No one. 

As retribution, the mobster slid the wire side to side, tearing into the muscle of his chest. Blood was beginning to sputter out from the deepening wound, trailing down the pale skin of Dunn’s torso. The wire didn’t go that deep, Ricky had learned from experience that if you tried to carve deep with the wire it would only get stuck. 

It was also in this moment that Ricky realized he was getting bored with The Dunn siblings. His anger was beginning to subside enough that it was at normal levels, and he realized that William doesn’t have that much energy left. _Sigh, too bad, it was fun while it lasted._

“Alright, I’m getting bored,” the bootlegger confessed, his attention fixated on the blood dripping from his glove down his forearm. 

At this, Dunn only sighed. He knew it was the end of his story as soon as he walked down those steps to find Ricky Goldsworth had kicked his door in. Truthfully, he was relieved that the murderer was done with him. 

During the attack, the elite’s hair had fallen from its near perfect status that he regularly kept it in. Desiring to fix it, he ran his fingers into the newly pouring blood from William’s chest. With the sufficient amount on his gloves, he then began to rearrange the strands by running his fingers through his hair. 

He inhaled a deep sigh. “You served your purpose, and to that I’m grateful.” 

William only heard the footsteps of the gilded man as he walked away from him and then again as he reapproached. 

He felt the tight grip of a bloodied glove on his jaw. “Open.” It wasn’t a request. Every second that he didn’t do as he was told, the grip on William’s jaw tightened. 

Eventually, the former employee did open his mouth. As soon as he did so, he felt something metallic shoved into the cavity of his lips. 

Willy did nothing, only using his energy to breathe, what little he had left. He did let out one final scream as Goldsworth pulled the barbed wire that was embedded in his chest, using it instead to tear open the skin on his neck that protected his arteries. 

And that was how the Dunn bloodline was erased, with William Dunn tied to his own kitchen chair, blinded, and wearing his own blood like a dapper suit. His sister mere feet away, beyond recognizable from her severe head trauma. 

His work done, Ricky packed up his instruments that he’d strewn all over the kitchen, leaving the grater in its spot. He didn’t bother cleaning anything else up, that’s what the cops were for. 

Even though it seems like this was a rash and unsolicited moment, the truth was that the heir had been planning this for months. None of the details were planned, but the way he would get them to scream, get them to cry, get them to suffer… that’s what he planned. That, and the ending. 

You see, the thing he shoved down William’s throat was what told the police “hey, it was me, don’t waste your time.” It told them to clean up, but stay the fuck out of it. Forced into Willam’s mouth was a handful of gold chains, spilling out from his teeth. And it wasn’t some cheap gold-plated shit, it was the real deal. 24 carats, baby. 

As he was walking for the door, he made one final look back at his hard work. The once bland void of color of their house was now vibrant with the deep reds that Ricky had so generously redecorated for them. 

Stepping over Cassidy’s corpse for the last time, the elite walked outside and towards his car. 

It had finally stopped raining, which was a relief to Ricky. He’d just fixed his hair, after all. After throwing his bag into the trunk of his teardrop stained car, he took a moment to lay in the atmosphere.

It was dead silent. The rain had caused all the nightlife to scurry for shelter, not to come out until the next night. The temperature had significantly dropped from the humid hell that had been terrorizing the residents of the golden state. The water still clung to the air, but it wasn’t yet touched by the sun. The elite took a deep breath, the cool air filling his overheated lungs. It made him calm down even more. 

Closing the trunk, Goldsworth got into his car, and sped back to his house; this time enjoying the drive.

+++

It wasn’t until well after he’d made it into the mansion that his mood soured. And yes, if you were wondering, it _was_ because of a certain tall, brown haired, sleep deprived detective. What made you ask that?

It wasn’t his presence that caused his decrease in mood, rather the mere mention of him. 

“Ricardo Leonardo Goldsworth!” 

_Aw, shit._ He recognized _that_ tone of voice. Ricky hadn’t even fully stepped into the house before he was being yelled at. Typical. 

Before he responded, the heir sighed. “Yes, Frankie dear?” 

He turned around to see his best friend standing atop the left set of stairs, an agitated look on her features. Her left hand was gripping the railing while the other was perched on her hip, holding back the long caramel trench coat that was hanging off her shoulders. Underneath the open coat was a black turtleneck that she’d tied up to show her midriff that was paired with black dress pants that she’d stolen from Ricky’s laundry pile. 

Frankie was the type of person to break every rule she could while yelling “fuck you” right in your face. Her style was a perfect example of this. While her outfits were considered scandalous and improper, she really couldn’t care less. She really only dressed like that while at the manor, but it was also likely she’d go out in something like that. 

“Where were you just now?” She swiped the dark curly hair away from her forehead to get a better view of Goldsworth. 

“Why do you want to know?” he refuted, pulling the blood stained gloves off his hands as she descended the steps. It was very clear what he was just doing, blood splattered all over his skin and clothes. 

“Goddamn it, you went without me again. You’re such an asshole!” Frankie proclaimed, not yet close enough to see the damage to his face. 

“I needed to do this one on my own, Francesca,” 

She reached the foyer now, shaking her head. The wild mane of curls she beautifully maintained bouncing around with the movement. 

“Yeah I’m sure,” Frankie mocked, her arms crossing over her chest. It was laughable how much they acted like siblings rather than friends. 

Now within ten feet of Ricky, Francesca was able to register the bruising in her best friend’s face. 

“What the fuck happened to your face?” she asked, not making any attempt to hide her surprise. She wasn’t surprised that it had happened, rather that someone was suicidal enough to beat up Ricky. 

At the question, the gilded man’s jaw set and his hands balled into fists. “That bastard detective happened.” His words were spat out like acid. 

She couldn’t help it, Frank snorted out a laugh that she quickly covered with a dark hand to her mouth. “Y-you mean that lanky ass kid beat you ass?” 

“It’s not funny, Frank!” He yelled indignantly, giving off the energy of a toddler throwing a tantrum. 

“No, no you’re right. It’s-” she burst out into a full chortle. 

Ricky just stood there, his face heating up from embarrassment. 

“Oh my god, what I’d pay to see that,” she confessed while catching her breath. The elite crossed his arms. 

“Are you done now?” 

She let out a few more weak giggles and composed herself. “Yeah, yeah I’m done.”

They began to make their way up the stairs towards Frank’s room. She had enough of Ricky’s clothes that she steals from him in her closet to give him a whole new wardrobe. 

“So, who did you get?” Frank inquired, her hands in her pockets. 

“Cassidy and William Dunn. I won’t give you too many of the details, you'll read about it in the papers in a few days,” the white collar dismissed. It was like a game to them. 

“Yeah, I remember those bigots. Did they use slurs against you?” Frank asked, remembering the things they said about her. 

“Oh, absolutely they did. It’s their second language. And, surprisingly that’s not the worst part about them,” Goldsworth supplied, shaking his head at the memory. 

“They were sleeping together, weren’t they?” 

Ricky looked at her in surprise, a swell of pride coursing through him. “How the hell did you know?” 

Frank opened the door to her bedroom, a near copy of Ricky’s own, just with a view of the road instead. 

“Oh please tell me you weren’t _that_ blind. They shared bedroom eyes all the fucking time, it was truly disgusting,” she shuddered. “And you know I pick up on shit like that so easily.” 

It was true, it was like Francesca had a sixth sense about it. Even when Ricky was certain he was 100% discreet about his hook-ups, Frank would question him not even 12 hours after about how that particular gentleman was in bed. 

“I’ll tell you what, though, I’d _love_ to get bedroom eyes from that Tin Man of yours,” she wished, a bite to her lip like she was miming the sensation that she wanted from the man in question. A small hum flowing from her thick lips with her eyes closed, probably imagining the most scandalous scenario possible, the detective at the epicenter. 

As she had flung herself on her bed the plush duvet billowed out beneath her like a ripple in a pond. Frank’s arms were above her head in a stretch, a careless smile directed towards the only other living soul in the room. 

A deep stirring in his gut caused a clenching in his jaw and hands. She knew _exactly_ which buttons to press in order to get his blood boiling. And in this very instance, she was succeeding almost fully. 

To Ricky, this was a very peculiar occurrence. He’d never felt this emotion firing up the acid in his stomach, causing a maelstrom of confusion and underlying seething anger. It was foreign to the gilded man, and like all things unknown to him, he responded with untethered anger. 

He didn’t want to be mad with Frank ever in his life, but in that moment, he couldn’t _help_ his temper from roaring like an untamed lion. “He’s bad news, Frank. Stay away from him.” 

Ricky was known by the masses as a vengeful brute with a short fuse and his wrath comparable to god himself. But if there were anyone in the world he’d ever hate getting resentful with besides Mamá, it was Francessca Norris.

This only made the woman shoot a knowing look in his direction, one that he’d seen on his mother just that very morning, discussing the exact same topic. 

“Why do you say that, Ricky?” 

The annoyance was bubbling in his blood, causing his fists to clench along with his jaw. Frank really was the best at getting him riled up. 

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that he bruised up my pretty face??” he signaled, a finger pointing to the damage. 

Frankie giggled slightly and turned her head to stare at the ceiling. “I really find it hilarious how you think you can still fool me.” 

She once again faced her best friend, a glimmer of something in her eyes that meant she knew something he didn’t. 

“Wanna try again?” 

The heir was taken aback by this. He propped his leg against the wall he was leaning on and crossed his arms, giving him an air of petulance. There really was another reason that he didn’t want her near that bastard, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. 

“Look, just listen to me for once, ok? He’s not the type of person you wanna be wrapped up with,” he argued, feeling a burning on his face as well as in his chest.

But why? Why was this so upsetting to him? Francesca was a strong woman who could hold her own in virtually any situation, so why was he so insistent on her staying away from Tinsley?

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, my dear sir. I want nothing more than to be wrapped up in that tall, mysterious, handsome man,” she rebutted, rolling onto her stomach to better look at Ricky. There was a grimace pinching his features together, that boy really was as transparent as they get. 

“What do you see in him? He’s an annoying little prick who has no sense of decorum who, need I remind you, nearly made me swallow my own teeth!” 

“I happen to know him to be quite the gentleman. He was nothing but respectful and endearing to me earlier,” the spy retorted, an arch in her eyebrow daring Goldsworth to oppose her. 

“For god’s sake, Frank, he’s a lanky, belligerent, rat! He’s not even attractive! He looks like a goddamn bird with that beak of a nose,” Ricky continued, now pacing the floor in front of Ms. Norris. 

“Now, now, Ricky, lying gets you into hell,” the woman purred. This made the bootlegger pause. 

“I’m not lying,” he refuted, a little too quickly to make it feel authentic. 

Francesca sighed, a smile pulling at her lips. “You really do seem to forget that I can read you like a children’s book.” 

“Alright, fine! He’s not bad to look at. Forgive me for not wanting to compliment his face after he ruined mine!” the gilded man yelled, throwing his hands up. 

“Yeah, but I’ve been saying how you’ve needed a good ass whooping for a while now.” 

“Treason! I should throw you into the dungeons for that,” he thundered, only in good humor. 

“And that you’re the most dramatic person in the world,” she breathed, fully meaning it. 

Ricky only rolled his eyes, turning the conversation back on track. “I’m serious, Francesca, don’t go near him.” 

The spy tsked in response, shifting so that she was sitting properly on the bed now, an arm propped behind her to hold her weight. 

“Now I’m getting the idea that you just want to hoard him all to yourself,” she teased, knowing full well this would really strike right at the exposed nerve. 

“Shut up, Frank,” 

“No really, you keep telling me to stay away, but you haven’t given me a legitimate reason why,” she explained, noting how he didn’t even deny her claim. 

Ricky reguared her smug expression and folded his arms over his chest again. Why does he need to give her a reason? She doesn’t need one, and his warning should be enough. 

“I’m not having this conversation,” he growled with a finality only reserved for business deals. 

“Oh, but I think we are,” she pressed, the victory she was feeling not hidden well on her face. 

At this, the heir got up from his spot on the wall, and crossed the room to her door. Ricky meant what he said. 

“ _I’m not having this conversation._ ”

Frankie didn’t even try to stop him as Goldsworth stomped out of her room, slamming the door behind him. There was no reasoning with him while he was having one of his tantrums. 

Instead, she was just biding her time. She’d talk to him tomorrow about his night in the morning.

+++

It was an understatement to say that Ricky was overreacting, and even he was aware of this fact, but he was _way_ too damn prideful to ever admit that aloud. But what was Frank trying to prove anyway? She was trying to get a rise out of him like she always is, but there was something else she was trying to do there as well.

His brain was too tired and muddled from the residual euphoria of earlier. He really wasn’t this slow on the uptake on a normal day, but he was just punched into a bloody pulp, so he deserves a pass. 

And, almost as if summoned by the gods of mischief themselves, who but Detective Tinsley is at the top of the stairs he just climbed. It wasn't like Ricky could avoid him, seeing as he was everyone's new favorite conversation topic. 

“What do _you_ want, cabrón?” the mobster spat, still very much angered by what happened down in the files room. The mere sight of him made Ricky want to grab the detective by the hair and smash his face into the marble flooring. 

“How many did you kill this time?” Tinsley inquired, ignoring the question flung at him. He wasn’t looking Goldsworth in the eye, rather taking in the tremendous quantity of blood that stained his clothes. 

Here’s the kicker, though, he didn’t have a look of disgust in his eyes like he had yesterday night when Ricky came home with even less blood on him. This sent a spark of intrigue down his spine. 

“Just two, an incestuous pair of sibilings that were also racsits,” the white collar supplied, his air of nonchillance returning. “Want me to go into detail?” 

His voice was purring in that seductive tone he loved to use, as it was effective for many reasons. Ricky didn’t remove his eyes from the detective as he removed the gloves from his back pocket, pulling the red leather onto his honeyed skin. 

The gilded man watched as the blue collar’s eyes focused in on the gloves, his throat mesmerizingly jumping up and down as he swallowed. 

When he received no response, the mobster continued.

“Gorgeous red, aren’t they?” he asked in regard to the gloves, holding up his hand to inspect them. He managed to make direct eye contact as the heir slowly took a step in Tinsley’s direction. 

“They were white not five hours ago,” the bootlegger implied, watching the detective’s face for his reaction. It was a mere licking of his thin lips. 

“You’re _sick_ ,” Tinsley finally spoke, his voice on the gruffer side. 

“Oh, I love it when you talk dirty to me,” Goldsworth moaned, taking another step towards the brunette. 

The detective was stunned into silence, unaware of what to do next. He had the look of a cornered animal to him, scanning for possible outs of the situation. 

Before he could escape however, Ricky was already on him, pushing him against the same wall Tinsley pushed him against not 20 hours ago. The warmth of the detective’s body was seeping through into Ricky’s own, hot breath ghosting over that pearly white skin of his. He once again held up his gloved hand to be viewed as he was about to retell the details of his escapade. 

“Drilling holes into people’s arms is messy work, Detective. But it’s worth it for the way he screamed,” the murderer purred, tracing the line of Tinsley’s jaw. 

“And you would’ve loved the way skin shreds when being grated like a block of cheese. Oh, it was artistry, I tell you.” 

“You’re a disgusting piece of shit, Goldsworth,” the blue collar gritted out, trying to gain the upper hand and wriggle out of this position he’s found himself in. 

“Ooo, careful what you say, Tinsley dearest, you might make me fall in love,” the gilded man jeered, now pressed fully against the man in front of him. 

“Do you _ever_ shut your fucking mouth??” Tinsley yelled, but it came out strained and not with the degree of heat he was intending. 

“Only on special occasions,” the heir breathed out. He pressed his lips into the side of Tinsley’s jaw he was just caressing, but only a feather light touch. 

It didn’t matter, the action was the catalyst needed to push the detective to his breaking point. 

“Consider this one of them,” he muttered quickly before grabbing Ricky by the back of his head. The older one yanked him away from his jaw and made him shut up. 

Dear God was that ever a special occasion. 

The burning Goldsworth was experiencing was so hot, it was almost freezing. The force Tinlsey had gone at him coupled with his healing bruises added to the effect, the pain shooting oh so deliciously down his nervous system. The grip at the back of his head tightened as the mobster bit down on the thin lip of the brunette, causing him to open his mouth in response. It was all the detective needed. 

He slid his tongue down Ricky’s throat like he was trying to gag the elite, and at that point it was an entirely believable assumption. All the motives and underlying emotions set the pace. It was fast, sloppy, desperate, rough, and so very _hateful_. 

They finally pulled apart long enough to stumble into one of the pair’s rooms, not having the presence of mind enough to care. 

As soon as they entered, Ricky found himself being shoved against the ajar door, the force causing it to close with a loud slam. It wasn’t long afterwards that his neck was being suckled like a popsicle, obscene moans floating out from the deepest parts of his consciousness. 

He knew this was a bad idea, that once they opened Pandora’s box, it would set off a terrible chain of events. But once again, Ricky found himself gravitating towards the worst possible option presented to him. 

Sometimes, you just had to throw away your self preservation. 

Sometimes, you had to look God straight in the eyes as you backed your way into Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really did let out the gore demon in me for this one as well as delve into some of the most disturbing qualities of humanity... retail changed me. I almost ended up deleting this whole chapter after months of working on it lmao. Also, college has been killing me lately so I'm sorry for the later upload. I promise the next one won't be so dark and will... change the rating. Hope to see you there, if I didn't already scare you off.


	5. Pain Without Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw//blood and kinda dubious consent  
> Just assume that every chapter will have a blood warning unless otherwise stated. Dub con bc it's never actually spoken, but they both do consent. Also this kinda goes without saying, but this is not a healthy interaction. Discuss your kinks beforehand with your partner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and gents, this is the moment you've waited for....
> 
> To my irl friend who reads this: Zack, this is your only warning. I am not responsible for you making the decision to continue reading this. You might think you can handle smut, but I beg to differ. Also if you try to judge me for this in any way I'm kidnapping your macbook and smashing it.
> 
> Inspired by this fanart [](<blockquote)
> 
>   
> 
> 
> [ ](https://www.instagram.com/p/CALuOTPgo0Q/?utm_source=ig_embed&utm_campaign=loading)
> 
> [ View this post on Instagram ](https://www.instagram.com/p/CALuOTPgo0Q/?utm_source=ig_embed&utm_campaign=loading)
> 
> [A post shared by gabe • comms closed (for now) (@pizzacastella)](https://www.instagram.com/p/CALuOTPgo0Q/?utm_source=ig_embed&utm_campaign=loading)  
> 

Dear God. 

Dear _God_. 

It shouldn't feel this way.

 _He_ shouldn’t feel this way. 

But, the Almighty forgive him, there was no way in hell he was strong enough to resist this temptation. 

It wasn’t just how he looked, though that was a factor. It was the way he sold himself. 

He knew, he knew damn well that his desires spawned from a dark, deep, twisted part of his soul that he daren’t examine too closely, lest he encounter something he didn’t want to discover.

The look in his eyes should’ve driven him away. 

The predatory gleam in his smirk should’ve said _run._

The blood soaking his body should’ve triggered Tinsley’s survival instincts. 

Instead, that borderline-crazed glint in his eyes pulled him closer. 

That devilish grin urged him to stay. 

The blood accenting his skin and clothes pandered to the underlying lust in his soul. 

Sure, he knew all that, doesn’t mean he understood it.

When had he become so demented?

A smooth voice in the back of his mind whispered to ignore the technicalities of it all and just focus on the present. 

Right, that. 

Where to begin.... 

Perhaps with the honeyed touch that was pestering him for his full attention. 

Yes, that seemed like a good focal point. 

There was a practiced grace to the way those hands roughly scoured his torso. This wasn’t the first time he’d touched a man in this manner, but there was definitely a sense of urgency underneath the movement. He wasn’t afraid to let the detective know he was well-versed in the art of lust. 

The black shroud obscuring his vision amplified the intensity of the sensation. What normally would’ve just been hands roaming his clothed chest felt too much like the worst sin he could ever imagine. It was sweltering under those strong, illegal hands. 

The detective savagely pinned the murderer against the door. _SLAM!_ The ear-splitting sound echoed in the otherwise deathly quiet late hours of the night. They hardly noticed. The pair was all too consumed. 

Directly after that, Tinsley entwined his long fingers in the part of Ricky’s hair that contained both longer strands and shortly trimmed ones in a vice grip. His hair felt in between tacky and damp, like he’d just recently styled it and the product hadn’t fully dried yet. 

With the tight hold on the back of the brat’s head, Tinsley was able to roughly jerk the man’s head back and slightly to the side, ripping those sinful lips off his own. Goldsworth emitted an indignant whine at the loss of contact. His whine immediately turned into a stream of undignified and desperate moans once the lawman began to knead at the chords of his neck. 

Normally, the blue collar was gentle. Normally, the blue collar worked at a slow pace, savoring the moment, making mental notes of each touch. Nothing of the sort could be witnessed here. This was hasty. This was rough. This was destruction and creation. Creation and destruction. Tinsley wasn’t sure if there was a difference anymore.

Tinsley assaulted the heir’s neck like a starved dog would a fillet of fresh beef. There was no set pattern as the man lathered that golden skin with his tongue, the skin rolling in between his teeth as he gnawed at it. He was biting down hard enough to feel deep indentations with his tongue. He’s not ashamed to admit the mere feeling of those teeth marks sent shivers across each inch of skin he had. 

If this had been any other instance, the taste of blood would have caused him a deep concern for his partner as well as a disgust for the metal tang on his taste buds. But this was _far_ from anything within the realm of normalcy. 

To his shock, Tinsley found himself not only unbothered by the taste, but desiring more. If he’d been in any clearer state of mind, the detective would’ve given that urge the credence it deserved, but instead he focused his energy to get that taste back in his mouth. 

“Fuck, don’t stop. Oh Dios, no se detenga, por favor,” the gilded man breathed out when the detective decided to start sucking on the pockmarked flesh. 

It was at this moment that the lawman accepted the fact that he wasn’t going to be in full control of his actions, because in that moment, he involuntarily rumbled out a deep and predatory growl that he wasn’t aware he was capable of making. Tinsley instantly detached himself from Ricky’s neck and used the hand wound in the man’s hair to expose Rick’s neck even more, leaning into his ear.

“Don’t even kid yourself into thinking you’re in any position to be making demands like that.” His tone was guttural and downright terror-inducing, both things that the criminal enjoyed far too much. 

“Ooo, tough guy, huh? A few moans and he thinks he calls the shots. You’re gonna need to do a lot better than that, hot shot.” 

_Disrespectful little bitch._

Tinsley released his grip on the elite’s hair. 

_Slap!_

Goldsworth’s profile was now the part of his features that the detective could see. Even in the darkness, he could see the red welt forming on his bronzed cheek. He didn’t give the mobster a chance to retaliate before his hand found purchase on Ricky’s neck, pushing it against the door behind him. 

“Learn when to shut your mouth, bratty slut,” he commanded, his voice not nearly as low as it had been, but enough to command respect.

He shouldn’t have been surprised at Goldsworth’s response: 

“Wouldn’t be an issue if I had a competent teacher.” The sly lift of the heir’s eyebrow told Tinsley that he was challenging him, that he was going to keep poking him until he would get his desired response. And this insubordinate minx was not about to get away with that. 

“Gott, du fragst nur danach,” the detective muttered under his breath, delighted by the surprise glimmering in Ricky’s eyes. 

Without warning, the blue collar ripped open the blood-stained white button up, exposing a torso that could’ve been chiseled by Donatello. It was hard not to allow himself to get distracted by the defined muscles, letting his spite drive his focus. 

Tinsley gave no room for protest as he slid his fingers across the golden pectoral to locate the sensitive nub, digging his fingernails in when he found it. 

The gasp that erupted from Ricky was sharp and startled, but the moan that followed was anything but. Satisfaction pulsed through the detective when he absorbed the way Goldsworth’s face contorted with pleasure. 

It didn’t last long, unfortunately, because it seemed that Ricky was hell bent on challenging his every breath. 

“That all you got, big boy?” 

Wasn’t he aware of how much his taunting will get him into trouble?

Tinsley completely removed any form of contact he had with the elite, taking a step back. There was clear confusion on the younger’s face at the abrupt change, but it quickly manifested into some guttural desire when he was able to make out the scene in front of him. 

“And here I was thinking you were merely packing an extra large jalopy. I’m a little disappointed it was just your gun.”

Tinsley turned the revolver slightly to consider the weapon, humoring the bootlegger. 

“I have a shoulder holster.” 

Goldsworth wasn’t even subtle as he licked his lips and directed his gaze down at Tinsley’s crotch. Of course size would matter to Ricky. 

In a gesture that was clearly just to humor the blue collar and because it was the normal reaction to the situation, the heir slowly raised his palms so that they were level with his head. Even in the limited light, Tinsley could see the face he was making. His right eyebrow was arched, an angle to his smirk, and his head was tilted flirtily to the side. It was a look of condescension, one that fully understood the situation but still chose to be a little shit. 

“Gotta say, I’m a little disappointed that it took you this long to point a gun at me, Tinsley dearest,” the gilded man purred. It was then that he reached his hand out to the lightswitch that flicked on the chandelier hanging in the center of the room. The incandescents were comparable to that of candle light, warm yet dim. 

The detective merely flicked his eyebrows up in a quick move, his head tilting slightly as well. “I knew I’d have a hard time stopping myself from pulling the trigger.” 

Tinsley didn’t miss the way Ricky’s smirk grew at his comment. Guess he liked danger.

“Didn’t ask you not to,” the white collar rasped. And Jesus Christ, if that didn’t send blood down south. 

“Shit, you’re all kinds of fucked up,” the lawman implied through gritted teeth. He wasn’t entirely sure if he was talking to himself or not. 

Goldsworth scoffed. “Keep talking like that, baby. Gets me all hot and bothered.” 

Even with a goddamn gun trained on him, Ricardo Leonardo Goldsworth couldn’t stop running his fucking mouth. What the hell would it take to get him to _shut the fuck up?_

“On your fucking knees, dreckige hure,” Tinsley growled, gesturing with the barrel in a sharp downward motion. “And lose the shirt and gloves.” 

Ricky didn’t even try to hide how pleased he was by this command, lending the detective a sultry gaze that promised sin. He did as he was told, slowly sinking down to his knees while shouldering off the soiled button down. He made it a point to never break eye contact as he carried out the order, keeping one eyebrow cocked as he slipped off the gloves.

The blood had managed to seep through the shirt and smear on his torso, his skin ethereally glowing in the soft, orange light of the room. His stubble distracted the lawman from his naked torso, only a small growth since his morning shave, but it was noticeable and frankly very becoming. A thin splatter of blood streaked across his jaw and bottom lip. Gore shouldn’t be so seductive. 

“I know I’m pretty and all, but I’d really like to get this show started. I have an appointment tomorrow and I’d hate-”

_Crack!_

The gilded man was interrupted by the detective slamming the butt of his revolver across the highpoint of the man’s cheek, adding more damage to the already pre-existing in that area. It wasn’t enough force to send him sprawling onto the floor, but it was enough to shove him in the direction of the gun. 

Ricky’s hand cupped the spot where ivory was violently cracked on his skin, facing away from the blue collar. When he did eventually turn to look at Tinsley, he expected to see rage, malice, murderous intent. He was surprised to see a giddy smile stretched against Goldsworth’s blindingly white teeth. 

_Masochistic slut._

It shouldn’t turn him on, it really shouldn't.

“What shall you have me do now, ¿amo?” He rolled his bottom lip between his teeth and nudged the tip of the gun with his temple, knowing it would get a reaction from the detective. 

Tinsley let out a shaky breath, refraining himself from outright moaning at that sight. He closed his eyes momentarily to solidify his resolve and outstretched his right hand to caress the spot he just pistol whipped. The heir leaned into the touch in a cat-like manner. 

The blue collar slid his hand to the back of the murderer’s head and gripped the hair at the middle of his skull. He yanked Goldsworth’s head back to a 45 degree angle, causing the man’s Adam's apple to bulge. The gilded man’s hands flew to Tinsley’s thighs as if to brace for what happened. He was mesmerized by the way his adam’s apple slid slowly up and down under the blood splattered skin. 

Tinsley took a few seconds to admire the damaged flesh on Ricky’s face. The purpling and red culmination of colors caused the skin to swell and raise up against his already pronounced cheekbones. The discoloration spread down to his jaw. It did something to the lawman when his mind reminded him that _he caused that destruction_. 

“You’re gonna use those criminal hands of yours,” he wet his lips as Goldsworth gently slid his hands closer to the growing bulge in Tinsley’s trousers, close enough to elicit a reaction but far enough to be irritatingly teasing. At this, he cocked the hammer of the revolver. “And you’re gonna remove my clothes the way I tell you to.” 

The white collar’s eyes seemed to alight with the change in the detective’s tone. His usual soothing and delicate cantor was now grave and just above a growl. _So, he does like to be told what to do._

“Take the belt off, _slowly,_ ” Tinsley gritted out. 

Ricky did as he was told, leisurely unclasping the buckle of the detective’s belt, not shying away when “accidentally” brushing against the hard dick close to his hands. He seemed to be enthralled by the way Tinsley’s hips shifted when he slid the belt from its loops. He coiled the leather up and threw it somewhere in the room, that wasn’t the detective’s top priority. 

“Blazer,” the blue collar demanded, voice still deep and guttural. 

The elite didn’t remove his hands from his master’s body as he slowly rose from his kneeling position. They felt like embers that scorched the trail they left on the detective’s skin, planting themselves on his pectoral muscles. Their faces were inches apart, a strong sense of “will we or won’t we” coursing through each individual. Tinsley realized that he was bending down to nearly capture those full lips, feeling the warm breath ghost over his own thin lips. 

They both hovered like that for a few seconds, anticipation rising. Ricky was the first to move, slithering his hands up to the muscles that connected the detective’s shoulder and neck. Tinsley responded by raising the gun up to the base of his skull almost like it was an afterthought, which it was. The forefront of his mind was filled with licentious sin. 

The hands lifted the coat off of Tinsley’s broad shoulders at the same time those sinfully soft lips found the crook of his neck. His free hand slipped along the contours of the murderer’s sculpted back, dipping and ascending along each curve. The scrape of facial hair against his jawline got the detective to turn his head in the direction of his companion, nose burying into the man’s hair. 

His chest expanded as he inhaled. It was then that the realization struck him that Goldsworth hadn’t used hair gel at all. Well, not the conventional kind. As the lawman smelled Ricky’s hair, he breathed in the deep scent of rich blood. 

“Scheiße,” the sleuth moaned in the heir’s ear. This sent a round of chills across the elite’s skin, his golden flesh now spotted with goosebumps. 

Ricky moved his hands to fit under his master’s arms in order to finish removing the blazer that was currently hanging on the man’s elbows. Tinsley removed his hand from the gilded man’s waistband, letting the fabric slip to the floor. 

Switching hands that the gun was in, Ricky removed the other arm of the detective’s coat and threw it haphazardly away. The detective dug the barrel of the weapon into the base of his servant’s skull, urging him to keep his attention on Tinsley’s neck. “Shirt.”

There wasn’t even a second’s hesitation before those skilled hands made their way to the center of his chest, adeptly unclasping each button. 

To the sleuth’s ecstasy, as the elite trailed down each button, his mouth followed the same path. Back on his knees once again, the mobster lingered on the stretch of porcelain skin right above lawman’s fly, stroking the trail of hair with his tongue. 

For a moment, Ricky forgot that he was meant to be following orders. He hastily began to undo the detective’s pants. 

Tinsley, keeping a close eye on the younger man, tangled his long fingers into the blood-soaked hair again and ripped the man’s head away from his flesh. Goldsworth’s mouth was left hanging open; Tinsley used this to his advantage.

Taking the gun, he shoved the barrel into Goldsworth’s mouth. He watched with distant amazement as the metal disappeared into that agape slot of wet, sinful flesh, all the way to the trigger guard without resistance. He was so fascinated that he nearly forgot why he was disciplining the boy in the first place. 

“Did I tell you to take off my pants, leibeigenen?” Tinsley’s anger seeped into his words. 

The gilded man didn’t respond, and not just because there was a gun shoved down his throat. 

“Antworte mir, hure!” He hadn’t spoken German in years, but now he couldn’t stop. 

He was pretty sure the heir didn’t understand the language, but probably took a guess as he shook his head in a small movement that caused the sight to protrude into the walls of his throat and make his eyes water. 

“Precisely. _Do as you’re told,_ ” the taller snarled. He slowly extracted the weapon from Goldsworth’s mouth, holding back a moan as the gilded man dragged his tongue across the silver. Thick saliva strung between the gun and the elite’s bottom lip. 

Releasing the vice grip on the white collar’s already disheveled hair, his servant resumed removing the detective’s shirt. The sleuth once again had to switch which hand the revolver was held in to successfully discard the cloth. 

There was a sly look to the way Ricky’s mouth was pulled up at the corner, a slight tilt to his head. “Awaiting orders, _master_.” 

He should’ve cracked him across the mouth for that simply as a matter of principle, but this meager boy’s taunting won’t get to him so easily. Tinsley decided to let him wait a little bit longer as he took off his shoes. 

“Give me all the weapons you have on you,” he demanded. It’d be foolish to assume he was unarmed. Ricky finally objected:

“Why the fuck would I do that, ¿cabrón?” Goldsworth curled his lips in a sneer.

That, the outright disinclination and disrespect, was something the detective wasn’t going to let slide. 

The sharp noise of harsh contact from Tinsley’s open palm striking forcefully against gilded skin broke the relative silence in the room. It was enough force to send him to the floor. 

“ _Because my word is law,_ ” The edge in his voice was just dangerous enough that it got Ricky to do as he’s told, albeit reluctantly. 

Slowly, he sat up from the marble and extracted his own revolver, a clear disdain for the action as the criminal produced a small growl in the back of his throat. As soon as the gun fell into his outstretched hand, Tinsley slid it into his waistband. 

When that was the only artillery Goldsworth produced, the lawman could feel a foregin sense of irrational fury fester underneath his skin. “I said _all of them._ ”

“Te mataré, cabrón,” the elite cursed through gritted teeth. In a flourish, the murderer unsheathed the dagger hidden on his ankle, twirling it absentmindedly through his fingers before relinquishing it. 

This weapon the blue collar took time to inspect, the flaming gems catching his eye in lowlight. It was a gorgeous blade, reminding him of something his mother would own. Tinsley hadn’t noticed the way Ricky watched with great intensity as he placed the thin blade into his pocket. 

“Now then, back to business,” the sleuth condescendingly delegated. He took a couple steps backwards, stopping when the cold surface of polished marble met with his naked back. He was now leaning against one of the pillars erected at the foot of the bed. 

Snapping his finger, he pointed at the ground right in front of him like one would do to command a dog to heel. The younger man didn’t instantly follow as he was still agitated that his master had taken his toys, but he still obeyed. 

The instant the gilded man was close enough, Tinsley gripped the bruised jaw of his servant and pulled his lips to his own. A small confused grunt originated from the latter, but he was quick on the uptake and soon fell into rhythm with his counterpart. 

It was resentful, spiteful, jagged. While it was kissing by the loosest definition, the more accurate description would have been releasing their hatred for each other in a dance of lips and teeth. As soon as the detective’s tongue made its way into Goldsworth’s mouth, those pearly teeth bit down on the flesh with a considerable amount of force, enough to break open the skin. 

Instead of drawing away and reacting with anger like any sane person would’ve, the lawman instead moaned; both from the pain and taste of blood. He felt his nails dig into the gilded skin on Ricky’s back, scraping up as he lost himself in the sensation. 

Goldsworth also seemed to derive joy from the gore that dripped into his mouth, chasing after it with his own tongue. 

Tinsley retracted from Ricky’s mouth and, with his still bleeding tongue, traced a direct line up from the man’s jugular notch all the way back up to his lips. This solicited a breathy moan from the elite, throwing his head back to grant better access. 

Without any words, the proletariat forced the gilded man to his knees once more, digging his hands into toned shoulders until he got the hint. With his free hand, the detective ran his fingers through bloody hair. The red stained his ivory complexion. 

An impish grin found its way to his lips as the lawman set the end of the revolver right in the center of the murderer’s right temple. “Take the pants off.” 

The heir cocked an eyebrow. “Finally, I thought I’d have wrinkles by the time we’d get to this point.”

Before the detective could even respond, Goldsworth planted his warm hands on each side of his master’s hips. Nimble fingers worked open the button on his fly, but stopped there. Without giving the lawman any time to question what he was doing, Ricky flicked his tongue on the zipper in order to take the brass between his teeth. 

The visual of Ricky Goldsworth unzipping the blue collar’s trousers nearly made him climax right there, right then. The part that really got him, though, was how the gilded man flicked his heavy-lidded gaze up at his master. 

“Gott, ich werde dieses grinsen von deinem Gesicht abwischen,” he growled, straining from resisting the urge to throw his head back. He needed to watch. 

As soon as they were all the way unzipped, the heir wound his fingers into the waistband and pulled them down to mid-calf. 

Tinsley let out a steadying breath before he dared speak again: “Boxers.” 

Ricky once again dug his fingers into the detective’s waistband, but this time, he shoved the garment down so fast he thought he was going to get whiplash. A wolfish curl fell onto the mobster’s features. 

To see the stark contrast of pasty skin against the tan skin backdrop of Goldsworth was almost mesmerizing to the detective. Ricky’s face seemed to wear an expression of shock as he took in the length of Tinsley’s cock. Let’s just say he’s proportional to the rest of his long limbs. 

After a second, though, the heir seemed to snap out of it before the blue collar could make fun of him. 

“Aww, you are happy to see me. How sweet,” Goldsworth remarked, feigning sentimentality. 

Finally reaching his wits end, the proletariat once again took advantage of his servant’s open mouth and shoved his dick down Ricky’s throat. The choking and indignant cries were music to his ears. 

“Finally, some peace and quiet,” he sighed. 

It was clear the gilded man was trying to say something, but the fist wound into the long strands of his hair forcing his head to stay in place was making it difficult. Ricky once again braced his hands on the pasty thighs of the detective. 

The detective clenched his jaw to prevent the moan in the back of his throat from escaping. He always liked the buzzing feeling when someone was talking even just in an innocent embrace. It was a feeling that could be comforting and invigorating, but in that moment, it was overstimulating and just on the right side of uncomfortable. 

“Didn’t Lucy ever teach you not to talk with your mouth full?” The lawman could feel the shit eating grin split his face in half. This remark earned him nails digging into his thighs. 

In response to the bootlegger’s protests, the blue collar forced the man’s head further down on his cock. It wasn’t a gradual move, either. It was a split second change. 

A choking noise was elicited from the white collar, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Even with these otherwise embarrassing factors, the elite had a fury burning in his eyes. His hot breath was scorching the surrounding area of skin, the short bursts from his nose almost tickling Tinsley’s skin.

The vibrations from Goldsworth’s outcries sent a wave of pleasure over him and he fluttered his eyes shut. Without any real concern for his counterpart, Tinsley began thrusting back and forth into the throat. 

It was a lot for his tired and lustful brain to process, but dear God did he feel every sensation. The subtle grazing of teeth on sensitive skin. A wet, sinful warmth that was all enveloping. A periodical touch of tongue. And lastly, the fleeting brush of his tip against the back of Ricky’s throat. 

The thought that his servant needed to breathe vaguely occurred to him, so he reluctantly removed the gilded man from his dick, the hand holding the revolver falling to his side. The man was left gasping and coughing, his lips red and lathered with thick saliva and precum. 

“Joder, ¿qué fue eso?” His yelling was made less abrasive by the fact that the heir’s voice was scratchy and wrecked. 

“Can’t understand you, kitten.” This earned the detective a glare. 

“I said, what the fuck was that?!” 

The proletariat huffed out a laugh. “That, my darling, was me teaching you when to shut your godforsaken mouth.” 

There was a small moment where it was clear that the white collar was computing that statement. After a few seconds, that same arrogant air returned to the gilded man. 

“Think I need another lesson, Professor Tinsley. You’re once again failing at your job,” Ricky mocked. Even with the ragged rise and fall in his chest, Ricky was just as irritating as before. 

“You little brat,” the blue collar growled before forcing his dick back into the subserniant’s mouth. 

The detective was merciless this time around. Whereas before he was slightly considerate and didn’t even stuff himself all the way in, there was no hesitation as Tinsley shoved Goldworth’s head to his pelvis. To top it all off, he didn’t let Ricky move. He was compelled to keep his cock nestled in the back of Ricky’s throat, and no amount of gagging would sway the master to move. 

“Nothing to say, Goldworth? That’s a little disappointing. Thought you’d be able to handle this.” It seemed that Ricky wasn’t the only brat in the room. 

After thirty seconds of gagging, the proletariat finally relinquished his grip on the thick black hair. 

Immediately, the elite propelled off the length of Tinsley’s dick, sputtering and coughing like he had consumption. Wet tracks lined the length of his cheeks as they glistened in the artificial light provided by the chandelier. The plump lips he possessed were now impossibly bigger and moistened by thick saliva that floods the back of your throat after enacting your gag reflex. The clear substance dripped down his chin in a thin trail, white bubbles and foam adorning the saliva. 

His eyes were pinched closed, mouth hanging agape while gasping harshly. The color of his face shifted from gold to rose gold as the blood rushed to his skin. The elite still braced his hand on the lawman’s left thigh, bowing his head slightly as he panted. 

After a few seconds of this, the gilded man wiped his lips with the back of his left hand, golden rings glinting in the light. He finally opened his eyes and flicked his chestnut gaze to the detective’s own stare. His long lashes obscured his eyes slightly. 

“You _really_ think I can’t handle you?” A chuckle that was supposed to be condescending fell from his mouth. 

The only response the detective dignified the question with was a cock of his right eyebrow, throwing down the gauntlet. He gestured with his gun at his dick, the veins in the organ bulging from the amount of blood pressure in that area. 

Tilting his head to the side, a lopsided smirk revealing his dazzling white teeth, Goldsworth pushed back. “Try asking me nicely, cabrón.” 

Tinsley ran his tongue over his teeth, raised his left hand, and cracked the butt of his gun against Ricky’s left cheekbone. A small grunt of pain, at least it might’ve been pain, escaped the subservient’s clenched teeth, his eyes pinching together. 

With the muzzle tucked under his chin, the lawman forced the white collar’s gaze to meet his. 

“Awwww, I didn’t know you could be so sweet,” the gilded man cooed, batting his eyelashes for added effect. 

Just as the sleuth opened his mouth to respond, the criminal slipped his mouth onto the tip of his dick. So, instead of the growling retort he wanted to utter, he hissed out a breath that was as close to a moan as anything else. 

“Cat got your tongue, Detective?” Ricky wore a satisfied mask, proud of himself for being able to turn Tinsley’s word back on him. 

“Unerträgliche göre,” the proletariat gritted out, swallowing another mouthful of blood from his injured tongue. 

Tinsley watched as the heir wrapped his lips around his cock, quickly gliding down to mid-shaft. A second later, the murderer wrapped his right hand around the base of the detective’s dick and began to pump up to where his lips were positioned. The rings on his thumb and middle fingers dug into the sexual organ, a sensation he was surprised added to the amount of pleasure granted. 

For as much as Goldsworth runs his mouth, it shouldn’t have been a surprise that he would be capable with his tongue. But oh was Tinsley surprised when he was able to swirl it around the girth of his dick. He groaned out in pure revelry, digging his teeth into his bottom lip. 

Taking this as encouragement, the white collar removed his hand and swallowed all of the proletariat’s cock into his mouth. It was hasty, hot, and wet. The saliva in the mobster’s mouth was so slick it could’ve been lube, the thickness making it string together. 

What really made the lawman go insane, however, was when he felt the warm and lubricious muscle lap at his testicles. “Heilige Scheiße, Kätzchen.” 

Lord Almighty and all his saints, did that flood him with an overwhelming sense of lust. The wave of licentiousness caused his head to fall back against the marble pillar, eyes pinching shut, and jaw hanging open in a silent cry of pleasure. _He’s fucking sin._

The sensation was short lived. 

Abruptly, there were strong hands forcing his torso to the left. 

The potency was the catalyst to the wind nearly knocking out of him as he felt his back fall onto the silky duvet. 

The event was marked by the sound of steel clattering on marble, a sharp noise in the quiet night. 

A tremendous weight found itself on the detective’s abdomen, straddling and pinning him into the bedding. 

His vision was still recovering from the sudden shift in orientation from vertical to horizontal, but he didn’t need to see to know that a sharp and ornamental blade was being pressed into his neck. 

When his vision finally did correct itself, he was met with a self-satisfied Ricky Goldsworth. 

_This bastard thinks he’s got me._

“What exactly is your plan here, boy?” There was an edge to his voice that could cut diamond under the guise of his calm, smooth tone. 

Tinsley felt the small shiver that ran through Ricky’s body. It was hard to miss, considering he currently had his thickly sculpted thighs straddling his torso. 

“Well, as this is payback for what happened down in the files room, I was thinking maybe slitting your throat with your pants down would be a good enough punishment,” the criminal growled, his tone not even close to sounding as dangerous as the lawman’s. 

The dagger was pressed a little more onto the skin of his neck, and to his horror (or delight, depending on how one interprets it) Tinsley felt his dick twitch in response. Damn, he’s really learning new things about himself tonight. 

Smoothly, the proletariat slithered his hands onto the warm thighs of his pet. The mint green and crimson were complimentary to his own pale skin. He began to spread his large and long fingers out, curling them along the contours and curves of the man’s thighs. The condescension he felt pulled his lips into a lopsided smirk, a dark and deep chuckle falling from his chest. 

“Really? Is that what you think is happening?” 

For a split second, there was fear in Goldsworth’s eyes. And for the rest of the night, Tinsley felt satiated. 

The gilded man was speechless, truly and perfectly at a loss for words. His dark brow eyes were slightly widened, pretty lips parted just enough to reveal his shock. 

The detective used this distraction to his advantage, planting his pasty hands onto the center of that sweltering golden chest, and shoved the subservient off him. Rolling them to the right, the balance of power shifting as Tinsley now straddled Goldsworth. In this position, the sleuth could clearly feel the bulging sin repressed by the layers of Goldsworth’s clothing. His right hand found its way to the blood covered neck of his partner, clenching it and pressing his body hard into the silk. 

The skin under his fist was pulsating significantly, the elite’s heart racing. His grip on the dagger was released at the change in position, so Tinsley took the chance to throw it out of reach, the metal and stone clattering to the marble floor in a high pitched timbre. 

Despite the fact that this brat is clearly being dominated, Ricky had the audacity to smirk. The lopsided pull of his sinful lips unearthed some deeply buried instinct to control this son of a bitch. 

Bending to that impulse, the lawman bent down to his toy’s ear, close enough to tease the skin with his lips. “That smirk is going to get you fucked, kitten.” 

The shiver that wracked the heir’s body caused his eyes to flutter, those long lashes quivering like a damsel’s, but much prettier than any dame’s he’d ever witnessed. It wasn’t a surprise that a mewl poured past those full lips as the proletariat traced the line of his silhouette with a feather-light touch, teasing him. 

Trying to gather some of his fight, the criminal secreted a breathy and weak laugh. “All talk, big boy.” 

He was really pushing Tinsley as far as he could, nudging him off that cliff of restraint. Though, he wasn’t going to let Goldsworth have the satisfaction of believing he could affect him in such a way. 

“Wanna say that again, princess?” 

The younger froze in his place. It was so piquant to know what finally was able to affect the false king. It didn’t lock his jaw fully, but it was enough to make him stutter and fumble on his cockiness. 

The clasp on Tinsley’s arm and thigh tightened, those strong honeyed hands leaving bruises that would bedim within the next few hours and manifest in a beguiling blemish of purple and red. 

The sleuth moved his left leg to wedge in between the thighs of the murderer, advancing in an agonizing pace towards his crotch. It was tormenting to the white collar. If he wasn’t being restricted by the grip on his throat, he would be able to grind down on that hovering touch of knee, to find ecstasy on something solid; not that he didn’t try to. 

“God, you really are something else,” Tinsley growled right into Ricky’s ear. The younger kept trying to grind down on the detective’s knee, strangling himself against the firm grip held against his throat. 

The proletariat slid his leg far enough down so that his pet wouldn’t be able touch it. The criminal mewled at the lack of contact, the fire he once had merely an ember in his eyes compared to the conflagration of lust engulfing his soul. Even if sin was taking up the majority of his brain power, Goldsworth still was a brat to his core. 

“That’s why you like me,” he strained, throwing a wink at the man pressing him into the mattress. 

Tired of his neverending onslaught of insufferable comments, the lawman removed himself from the silk and flesh to plant his feet on the cold and unforgiving marble. The split second change left the younger confused and disoriented. The look of confusion on the elite’s face was something Tinsley would pay to see again. 

He didn’t even give the heir the benefit of an explanation as he crossed the vast bedroom to the dark wooden armoire. It was an imposing piece of furniture, taller than the 6’4” Tinsley and with golden vines painted onto the wood along with gilded oak leaves as handles. So eccentric. 

The detective pulled open the chest with the hope that he was looking in the right spot flaring in his heart. His hope wasn’t in vain. The doors opened to reveal a kaleidoscopic mural of every color imaginable in the medium of silken neck and bowtie. They hung triumphantly on pegs of coordinated color, no peg holding more than one fabric. It was one of the most beautiful things to Tinsley, discovering new shades of color he never could have dreamed. 

“What are you _doing_?” 

Tinsley ignored the ragged voice and reached a hand out to grasp at a blindingly gold tie, a swirling paisley pattern accenting the silk cloth. He pinched the silk between his index, middle, and thumb and slowly traced the length of the fabric. Tinsley unhooked it from the peg and draped it against his forearm. 

The next one to really catch his attention was a deep royal blue. Unassuming at first, but the longer he looked at it, the more intricate and beautiful it was. Embroidered into the silk were lush roses in a vining garden of gold that caught the light with a muted shine that was oddly calming. Alongside the golden flowers were embroidered arches of vibrant royal blue in Fleur-De-Lis patterns that were only visible when in the direct light. He placed that one on his arm next to the pure golden one. 

The last one the detective selected was noticeably the darkest in the lineup. Obsidian black was gashed open in diagonal linear patterns that contained intricate dotting work in the same shining red as the stripes. It was shadowy and certainly not the flashiest in Goldsworth’s collection, but there was an alluring quality to it that seemed to caress the part of him that was pulsating with lust. 

This one he didn’t drape over his arm. Rather, he wrapped it around his palm like a boxer would wrap their hands with tape. With that, he shut the armoire doors with a thundering finality. 

While on his way back over to the elite that was throwing him the strangest look- an interesting mix of confusion and muted arousal- the detective was able to spot the dagger that he’d thrown aside earlier. The rubies glittered in the low chandelier light, beckoning him and crying out to be put back into the narrative. He had no choice but to oblige, always a sucker for pretty things.

Tinsley first set down the decorative blade, the sharp steel teasing the soft brown silk that swaddled the weapon. It would come into play later.

He knew full well that Ricky was studying his every move, trying desperately to understand the blue collar’s plan. At this point the proletariat had shed all of his clothes so that his movement wasn’t constricted at all, making the bug under a microscope feeling begin to crawl up from the depths of his anxieties. He squashed it down in order to continue with his endeavor. 

The sleuth avoided eye contact the entire time. He felt those chestnut eyes trained on him since the moment he broke any form of contact minutes ago. It made his skin crawl and all the hair on his body stand up, the stare akin to a predator stalking a flighty piece of prey. 

For this scheme to work, he would need Goldsworth to come to him. If he just launched into it, Ricky would fight him the entire way and not in the bratty but playful way he’d been resisting. No, it would be a reboot of what caused the gilded man’s slaughter earlier, but with approximately twenty times more of the amount of blood shed. 

So, to lure the heir, Tinsley peered into those sinful pools of danger and desire. They were dimmed by the clouds of lust permeating the air around them, turning them from a sepia to dark umber. Perhaps it was the imitation candle light burning from the chandelier or the minimal amount of incandescence twinkling through the multiple glass doors that made his eyes so dark. 

With his attention fully captured, the lawman leisurely clambered back onto the sheets, each new press into the silk cooling his overheated skin. He examined the criminal’s body language, analyzing the best approach to this. He seemed still a little confused but completely enamored with the detective’s advancing movements. 

Once he was in front of his toy, Tinsley sat upright, not straightening out his back all the way. It was so tempting to just force Ricky down and execute his plan, but he knew the satisfaction was in if he could pull this off with minimal resistance. With that in mind, the blue collar straddled the gilded man for the third time that day. His bronze skin was so detrimentally warm that it nearly distracted the brunette from his main task. 

Gently, he situated his crotch so that he rested right on top of the gilded man’s sensitive dick. The friction caused a strangled breath to escape from the younger, biting his lip to stop any other noises from slipping out. His eyes squeezed shut from the sensation, hands flying to bare thighs and digging fingers into pasty skin. 

The sleuth caged the unjustifiably clothed hips with his spindly fingers, thumbs flirting with the pocket slits of the crimson saturated mint. His restraint was quivering as the golden skin flinched at the contact, hardened muscles rippling under hedonistic tissue. Breath quickened from leisurely intakes to hurried gulps made shaky by the vehement lunge of hearts. 

It was nothing akin to any prior experience the blue collar had with a partner before, man or woman. There was something so remarkably contrastive about Goldsworth, and he wasn’t entirely sure he was fond of that realization; it led to precarious and lethal pathways of life. 

Mind still opaque from his reprieve from reality, the detective hazily skimmed meticulous hands along the breadth of lustrous ribbing and muscle. The elite writhed under the manipulation, the stagnant pace agonizing both parties. 

Being by far the more impulsive of the pair, Ricky was the one to first fracture under the insurmountable weight of tension. Tenacious hands recklessly gripped harshly onto thick bunches of russet, yanking his enemy’s head to force the intimacy he so craved. 

It was at that moment that Tinsely understood why Eve ate the apple. The temptation of indulging in something forbidden, of violating warnings and breaking rules, was a thrill second to none. To be enthralled in the velvety lips of the criminal was treacherously coaxing; he was the original sin. 

Granulating lunges of hips produced filthy lamentation on the part of the younger, repressed by the disinclination to sever the contact at their mouths. Teeth and nails mercilessly punished the skin of both individuals, scratching red threads in their wake and ceding mulberry depressions on flush sinews. 

The distinct piercing metallic pungency was once again gracing the proletariat’s tongue, luring the perverted exaltation correlated to that taste out to the forefront. This newfound morbid gluttony for blood should’ve indicated the wicked nature of this encounter, but abiding to morality wasn’t even _close_ to being as important as the aphrodisiac harmony experienced. And that scared him. 

The white collar now fully ensnared, the lawman exacted his plan, shoving Goldsworth flush against the mattress. He pinned caramel hands forcefully above his head, all the while lapping at the criminal’s nipple in a desperate attempt to distract from his hands. He thrashed under the unrelenting hold of his master, whines and mewls stringing together in broken fragments of sound. 

Tinsley took this opportunity to wind the silk ties around each of the heir’s wrists, working hastily and forcefully to accommodate the small frame of contingency. With each wrist now bound, the lawman collected both in his left hand and pulled away from Goldsworth’s chest. 

“What the hell are you doing?!” Ricky demanded, straining against the cloth. The confusion fused ire contorting the blossom tinged skin of his face. 

“Quiet, pet,” the brunette commanded absently, focusing mainly on the task of constraining the increasing squirming of the gilded man. He now was straddling the mobster’s pectoral muscles. 

The detective stretched out his lithe arms to reach the bedpost, tying the elite’s right hand to the dark wood first in an unyielding knot, the other tie secured firmly between his teeth so that he could use both hands. But even with only one hand, Goldsworth was still injurious. Tinsley hurriedly cinched the other hand to the bedpost, using that same prodigious knot as before. It goes without mentioning that Ricky was protesting the entirety of the event. 

Once his work was done, the lawman sat back and admired it. The royal blue bound the white collar’s left hand, the right being restrained by the gaudy golden silk. The wood groaned in objection as the murderer grappled with his accessories, hands bleaching of color at the death grip on the fabric. His toned and refined arms were splayed out in an imitation of crucifixion. There was still one last task to complete before his plan was successfully carried out, the last bit of cloth still nestled in Tinsley’s hand. 

“You’re a sick bastard, Detective,” the heir hissed, still tugging at his cuffs. The missed irony was simply laughable. 

“Takes one to know one, dollface,” the proletariat retorted, satisfied with himself for pulling off the hardest part of the procedure. He made his way back down to where he was positioned before he had to tie the subservient to the bed. 

From his perch on the white collar’s hips (trying with extreme difficulty to ignore how pronounced the man’s cock was), Tinsley twisted his torso to reach for the ornate dagger that was still nestled in the silk of the sheets. The weight of the cool stone pressed into his left palm. 

He took a moment to truly admire the artistry of it. It wasn’t the gaudiest thing in Goldsworth's possessions, but there was something to be said about beauty in simplicity. His pointer finger traced along the contours of the inlaid rubies on the blade, catching the low light being cast from the chandelier in sparkling bursts with each subtle turn of the dagger. 

When flicking his attention back to the criminal, the lawman caught him entirely captivated in unbridled awe while focusing on Tinsley’s hands. Ricky’s face could be compared to that of someone who just witnessed the divine. 

“You’re wearing far too many clothes, kitten,” he purred, right hand digging fingers under the mint waistband. The subservient grimaced but his body betrayed him as he shivered, the muscles straining in his jaw. 

Before the brat could come up with a response, Tinsley made the first move. In a swift pace that could only have stemmed from prior training, the sleuth slashed the blade down on the luxury clothing. The knife and clothing screamed together in a discord of high pitched metallic music and resistant tearing. 

It was a fleeting second while Ricky processed what had just occurred, but he was always one to be quick on the uptake. “You _mother fucker!!_ Those are Chanel!!” He was trying to sound utterly outraged, but there was an undeniable lust in his eyes that expressed how he was really feeling. 

A low chuckle briefly rumbled in his chest. “Not quite yet, but Lucy’s next on the list.” 

Genuine pure rage flashed in the heir’s eyes. It was definitely a very dangerous thing Tinsley just implied, no matter how little he truly meant it. But the payoff was when the murderer tried to lunge at him. His muscles went taut under his skin, teeth bared in a real snarl, every intention to mual the detective. It was all for naught. 

As Goldsworth lurched forward, the restraints on each wrist pulled tight, and stopped him halfway up. The silk yanked him back onto the sheets, the momentum too great and sudden for him to counter it. Wood creaks permeated the air along with the scalding curses of the gilded man. 

The blue collar only observed, an amused smirk adorning his features. He hadn’t even flinched when Ricky pounced. While the elite was slinging insults they were free, the detective unraveled the tie that was looped around his hand. 

Paying no attention to the acrid words of the boy, Tinsley inspected the red and black tie. It really was a beauty, the red invigorating while the black soothed his senses. The material was nice too, cool to the touch and smoothly soft. It was a tie he would buy for himself if he could afford it. 

“...you lanky son of a whore! If you-” Ricky was interrupted by tussore wedging its way between his pearly whites. The proletariat released a sigh that was saturated with relief. 

“Hush, pretty boy. Your beauty depreciates in value with each word,” the blue collar warned. At this point, the man had a handful of bloody strands gathered in his grip, pulling the gilded man’s head off the bedding to secure the gag. 

With his plan finally complete, the detective could finally have his fun. 

Muffled cries of protest curdled out behind the crimson and obsidian. _Can’t learn his lesson, can he?_

Tinsley struck the elite’s cheek again, silencing him. “I said _be quiet._ ”

Satisfied with the lack of noise, the lawman directed his attention back to the ripped pants hanging loosely on the gilded man’s hips. The cut he made wasn’t big enough. 

Taking handfuls of mint in both hands, the brunette tore the fabric with a powerful yank. This elicited a small whine from the younger man, probably pleasantly surprised at the show of strength. 

The ruined clothing was thrown into the surrounding area, landing with a muted _thump_. All that was left was the boxers. 

An idea planted itself into the sleuth’s mind, the roots of it reaching down to his lips and manipulating them in the form of a supercilious grin. Taking a page from the elite’s book, the blue collar shifted his hips down to Ricky’s shins. His spine curled him forward, putting him into a position parallel to the prone body of Ricardo Goldsworth. Ivory hands were stationed on each side of the subservient, thumbs pressing down in the slots between his ribs. In place, Tinsley lightly nipped at the elastic of the undergarment. The moan that burst from Goldsworth could’ve been heard from the ocean outside. 

The boxers peeled away to unearth the rock hard wealthy man’s dick. Once they were past his toy’s pelvis, the detective removed the panties the rest of the way with his hands. Now the only thing the murderer was wearing was bondage, blood, and sin. 

It was a testament to the lawman’s will that he didn’t immediately start hammering the criminal until the only thing he could say in English or Spanish was _harder_. While that greed was very, very strong, he needed to prep the boy first. He might not prioritize Ricky’s safety over his own lust, but he wasn’t really into permanently damaging his partners. Although, looking at his previous actions, Goldsworth would probably be into that.

“Where’s the lube, kitten?” 

Something visibly changed in the mobster’s expression, but it was gone before the detective could identify it. With a little difficulty, he pointed to the drawer set that was sentry to the sleuth’s left. After opening up the middle drawer, he was able to spot a glass bottle rolling towards him. 

Twisting the dropper cap off the bottle and filling the glass stem with the lubricant, Tinsley set the bottle atop the drawers so that it was still easily accessible. 

The lube was cold on his fingers, the frankly unpleasant smell invading his sinuses after he squirted out a liberal amount. He wasted no time prodding his fingers into the gilded man’s hole in an uncharacteristic move of impatience. It would’ve disturbed him if he hadn’t already accepted the fact that he wasn’t going to act normally at all tonight. He was giving into his impulses way more than he ever has in his life. 

The cry Goldsworth made was broken and immoral, the finger piercing him surprising the unprepared man. His face scrunched together, teeth clenching down on the silk and hands fisting around the restraints. 

The sleuth’s pointer finger went in easily enough, the simmering hot flesh greedily swallowing the extremity with ease. The lewd dewy noise of Tinsley infesting his pet’s orifice was tantalizing, there was nothing that he longed for more than to just ruin the elite. 

After a moment of coiling his finger in the slick cavern, the proletariat pierced the hole again but with two fingers now. Incredibly, the second phalange slid in as smoothly as the first. The rather loud whine that came out of the younger pandered only to the licentious craving. 

“You little slut,” the brunette declared, abruptly jerking his fingers out of the criminal. This caught the attention of the subservient, meeting his master’s eyes. “You’re already stretched.” 

The detective wasn’t sure if he was outraged or thrilled by this discovery, but there was something dangerously close to jealousy roiling in the pit of his stomach. He was completely ignorant to the fact that this dark coveting was displayed on his features. 

“You were fucked recently, weren’t you, Schlampe?” The grave edge to the lawman’s voice was genuine, although not realizing the authenticity. His teeth clenched and flexed the muscles of his jaw. He wasn’t thinking as he harshly dragged those golden hips towards his own. The plump softness of Ricky’s ass was flush against the blue collar’s dick. 

“Did it feel good, kitten? Was it delightful when he split you open and made you come?” _God, where was this coming from??_

Goldsworth pathetically whimpered as the detective’s dick flirted with the skin of his asshole, begging for more behind the saliva soaked necktie. He enjoyed this wicked side of his master. 

“I bet you moaned, made you whine and whimper as he thrusted into your tasty little ass,” the proletariat growled, using the excess lube on his fingers and applying it to his cock. He let out a low hiss at the first real contact the sexual organ had since being encircled by the white collar’s throat. 

“He was probably good,” the lawman rasped. A snarl so guttural slipped past thin lips as he reamed up into the slippery hole in an unyielding snap of his hips. The sensation was so overwhelmingly decadent that both parties were winded. “But I’m gonna rail you so hard that you can only scream my name.” Ricky’s moan was loud enough to rattle his bones.

“What was his name, kitten?” The lawman stilled his hips, awaiting an answer.

The elite writhed under the detective who had clasped his hands around each honeyed forearm, looming and caging him in. He was frustratingly stagnant, refusing to move his hips in any direction and keep them stationed against his pelvis. 

Just when it seemed like Tinsley would never move, he jerked his hips back incredibly swiftly, and then lashed into the subservient with such tremendous force that there could’ve been tearing. The intensity was the right kind of agony, that made someone’s entire body feel the blinding perception and nothing else. 

Words were muttered in a tangle of incoherence caused by the gag, needy and fervid. Goldsworth’s body was much more resistant to the blue collar’s cock than his lissom fingers. The strained muscle pulsed around the girth of the detective’s dick, each throb sent meticulous waves of sinful fire through Tinsley’s nervous system. 

Nails pierced into sun kissed skin, the pace of each puncture kicking up with the encouragement of the heir’s wails of ecstasy. He wasn’t exactly hiding his elation, either. With each organ rupturing ram, Ricky Goldsworth emphatically bewailed loud enough to rouse the dead. 

“Du stöhnst so gut für deinen Meister, Prinzessin,” the proletariat growled, his own breathy moan slithering out of his throat. The vulgar clap of skin contacting on each thrust contrasted with the soft rustle of bedding. 

Indistinct chatter meddled with desperation inside chestnut eyes, warranting the removal of the muzzle. “ _Name, now._ ” 

The elite gasped, both from need of oxygen and sensory overload. “Lucianus,” he whimpered out. 

The requisition of the name sent that same possessive jolt down his spine, hatred and spite fueling his next maneuver. Tinsley leaned down and began nipping at Ricky’s collarbones, neck, adam’s apple, whatever he could reach. 

“ _Fuck,_ cut me! ¡Dios mío, hazme sangrar! Por favor, Papi, ¡por favor, por favor!” Goldsworth begged, whiny and overcome with his lust. 

The sleuth didn’t have to be told twice. He reached for the place he last set the dagger down, fully prepared to satiate his bloodlust. Before he began, however, Tinsley initiated a lecherous kiss that quickly evolved into punishment. Each drilling lash or hips would force teeth into the soft lips of the other. Lamentations intertwined in a sinful coil of pleasure, a sound neither would soon forget. 

Disengaging from the kiss with a snarl, the proletariat began to carefully suture shallow gashes on the man’s torso. At the first severance, a sob saturated with gratification tore out of the heir vehemently. His fingers curled tightly around the silk restraints, lip catching between his teeth. “¡Ay, joder!”

The deep red ichor captivatingly dribbled from the laceration. It was… gorgeous. Beautiful in a way that Tinsley had never admired before. He continued, careful to keep the slashes thin and shallow. He reached out a hand and smeared the blood, soaking his own skin. 

Bringing it up to his face, the detective deeply inhaled like a junky who was just sold his addiction. Bending to his instincts once again, the lawman slipped his finger into his mouth. The taste made his hips lurch forward, a renewed sense of lust stoking inside his chest. 

“Fuck, ich bin nah dran,” the sleuth moaned, the only warning the elite would receive. 

Tinsley grabbed onto Ricky’s untouched dick, the blood making the grip slick. “Mierda, sí papi,” came the throaty response. 

“ _What’s his name now, kitten?_ ” The master started to rail the criminal even faster and harder.

“¡N-no sé! I don’t know!” Golden legs wrapped around pasty hips. “Make me forget my name, papi.”

What finally pushed the detective over the edge was when Goldsworth, unsatisfied with the tempo, gripped the cuffs he was tied to in order to get better leverage, and began to pound himself onto the blue collar’s cock. 

With a continuous growl, Tinsley spilled inside Ricky, each thrust in time with the pulsating of semen and draining lust. At the feeling of being filled with come, the gilded man whined. 

He was relentless with his pace, continuing through the proletariat’s oversensitivity. It wasn’t long after that he was also coming, white and red blending together to compliment the golden glow of skin. 

They both panted for moments after, time as irrelevant as impulse control. With each intake of breath, Tinsley’s exhaustion seeped into his soul. It occurred to him that he had yet to release Goldsworth from his bonds, using the bloody dagger to slice the fabric. Right before he relinquished himself fully to unconsciousness, Ricky spoke words that he knew would be the cause for argument tomorrow. 

“This changes nothing between us, cabrón.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bringing a whole new meaning to "blood, sweat, and tears". 
> 
> They've only known each other for 26 hours, huh....


	6. From Eden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw // very light domestic violence
> 
> domestic violence hotline: 1−800−799−7233
> 
> +++
> 
> You guys can thank Jon Bellion and Lord Huron for their music that caused me to write soft scenes (soft for me, anyway)

They didn’t talk about it. At all.

Well, more accurately, they didn’t discuss the details of the night prior nor the last thing Ricky said to Tinsley before the detective passed out. Their sinful late night rendezvous was a conversation topic, but not one that either man willingly brought up. No, it was something that was thrust upon them much like one would do to shame and embarrass an individual. But that wasn’t until breakfast. 

Currently, the sleuth was just starting to stir along with the bright morning rays. Much to his delight, there was no haunting nightmare looming just beyond consciousness that morning. He was surprised to find his arm slung around a very warm mass, unable to recognize it was the gilded man with his eyes closed. 

When he did finally open his eyes, the proletariat had a brief moment of panic as he’d forgotten the previous night’s events. A piercing headache stabbed behind his eyes after opening them for a brief moment, a similar ache experienced throughout the rest of his body. Once his mind finally caught up with him, Tinsley remembered the hours before he slept. _Well, that explains the soreness._

“Good, you’re finally awake. Get the fuck off of me,” Goldsworth commanded with a groggy grumble to his words. He still seemed much more awake than the detective, though, like he’d been up for a few minutes already. 

He wasn’t even conscious for more than three minutes and he already was so tired of Ricky Goldsworth. So, as a way to spite the heir, the older man tightened his hold on the mobster and pulled him closer against his chest. While he was deeply annoyed with him, Tinsley had to begrudgingly admit that Goldsworth was pleasantly warm. 

The criminal made a noise of annoyance in response to the proletariat’s move. “Tinsley, I swear to God, let me go right now. I know you’re awake, cabrón.” 

“Get your own bed,” he muttered, more of a growl than anything else. The blue collar registered the deep sigh that the heir emitted as his grip grew tighter, challenging the smaller man. The detective knew that if either individual’s tone had been any lighter, this scene would be almost fluffy and wholesome; if you disregard the fact that the person he was currently holding was covered in bruises and cuts that Tinsley caused to exploit his newfound morbid sexual bliss. 

After splaying his fingers across the white collar’s chest, the brunette felt them brush against bandages. _Huh, he must’ve taken care of himself after I fell asleep._

“Goddamn it, Detective, this _is_ my fucking bed.” The criminal threw his head back in exasperation, nearly missing the other’s nose and instead landing on his chin. The impact caused a small grunt of pain and surprise to rip from the proletariat’s throat. For a small, infinitesimal, fleeting moment, Tinsley forgot himself and everything about his situation; he let out a genuine short chuckle. 

As soon as it left the older man’s mouth, both parties froze. Neither were expecting it, it was very out of character for the sleuth. Tinsley never laughed, it seemed he didn’t believe he deserved such pleasantries. It was dangerous to even think of the possibility of Tinsley getting something like that, the soft and loving moments in a relationship, because it would be a matter of time before something truly awful would happen to that person he loved. So he forced those ideas from his mind for his own safety, he didn’t need more emotional turmoil. He was also disgusted by the fact that he would even fathom feeling anything like that towards _Ricky Goldsworth_ of all people. 

The proletariat released Ricky from his grasp, no longer in the mood for whatever he was doing before. Goldsworth took the opportunity and escaped the reach of the other man. He did stop at the end of the mattress to turn and look at the detective. There was an emotion on his face that, if Tinsley didn’t know Ricky any better, he would’ve assumed was compassion. There was a brief terrifying moment where the brunette thought the gilded man was going to ask him what was wrong as he hesitated at the end of the bed; he was thankfully wrong. 

The elite did open his mouth to start a statement but was cut off by someone knocking at the door. The heir huffed in annoyance at being interrupted. 

“What??” was all he said, rubbing his eye with the heel of his palm. 

A male voice Tinsley had never heard before spoke on the other side of the door. “You and Detective Tinsley are being summoned down to breakfast by Mistress Lucy, sir.” Footsteps followed after the message was delivered, the servant had left. 

“You heard him. Get out of here and get dressed,” Ricky commanded whilst throwing a robe at his counterpart. 

The white satin spilled across the prone form of the detective in a blooming motion. The older man sighed and threw the covers off, too tired to contest the demand. He swung his legs off the bed and slipped the robe onto his body, the cool fabric instantly warming to match the temperature of his body. It seemed he had the presence of mind enough last night to safely place his glasses on the nightstand next to the bed. 

It wasn’t until he got into his own room that he realized that the servant hadn’t bothered to knock on his door to inform him of the meal being prepared. The man had only come to Ricky’s door, he thought that informing Goldsworth was enough. The implications of that Tinsley didn’t like, he didn’t like any of them. 

Tinsley walked over to his closet, glancing out the sets of glass doors to gauge what to wear based on the weather for the day. He recalled something Ricky had said to him on that phone call they shared at the beginning of all this: _dress lightly, there’s been a bit of a heat wave here_. Crazy to think something that happened a week prior could feel like a lifetime ago. 

Sighing, the sleuth removed a dark gray pinstripe three piece from the hanger. He bought this suit when he was slimmer and a lot younger, so just like everything else he wore, it was on the tight side. He paired the gray with a blood red tie that had embroidered golden squares made visible in the sunlight; Tinsley failed to realize how fitting it was. 

He slipped into the adjacent bathroom to do his hair, appalled by the state it was in. After running a comb through it and wincing at all the knots he had to use significant force to untangle, he was finally ready to style his hair. Tinsley will acknowledge that it’s unusual for him to be found with kempt hair as most of the time the man can’t be bothered or is too busy to waste his time on his appearance. This time however, this time was different. 

Just because he never bothered to style his locks doesn’t mean he didn’t know how. As he had naturally wavy hair, the detective liked to keep that quality while using the hair gel, matting down the long sides and allowing the top and front flow in its natural state. He let a piece in the front rest tastefully against the skin of his forehead, the molasses color contrasting the ivory. 

Wiping the lenses of his glasses and clasping his watch onto his wrist, the proletariat left his room, closing the door behind him. The footsteps and curses behind Ricky’s door indicated he’d gotten ready earlier than his gracious host.

Before he could make a remark, the door whipped open in front of him to reveal Goldsworth. As cliché as it sounded, the sleuth had to pick his jaw up off the floor. As he’s stated before, he found beauty in simplicity, and the mobster’s outfit that day was simply beautiful:

The criminal’s suit was an emerald green that complimented the gold of his complexion, a pure white button-down noticeable with the open blazer. A gold chain hung lazily under his collar bones that peeked through the three buttons left open on his chest. It was an Italian cut, snug in all the right places. He was astonished to notice none of the bandages he knew to take residence on the younger man’s chest were visible. The plum bruising on his face was very noticeable, however. 

“If I wasn’t so flattered by your staring I would find it quite annoying, Detective,” Ricky sighed, producing a lighter and cigarette case from his blazer. 

“Oh, I was just admiring how those bruises bring out the color of your eyes, kitten,” the sleuth mentioned, smirking at the heir’s predictable reaction. He had paused halfway through lighting his cigarette at the pet name, his hackles raising along with the blush on his face. 

The white collar flipped the cap of the lighter closed and pointedly avoided the brunette’s gaze. “ _Don’t_ call me that.” 

“You didn’t have a problem with it before,” Tinsley teased. 

It was lovely watching just how red that golden skin could get. Goldsworth cleared his throat and ignored the comment, striding past him and down the set of stairs to the dining room. If the detective could see how smug he looked, he would’ve punched himself in the face.

+++

As soon as the pair entered the dining room, Ms. Goldsworth greeted them with, “Good morning, boys! I trust you two slept well.” _Together_ went unspoken. She knew, alright.

Ricky was the one to respond. “Just _fine_ , Mamá.” The smile on his face betrayed how horrified he was by his mother’s choice of words. 

She looked at her son fully for the first time since the day before’s breakfast meal. The protective fury that took center stage in her eyes was enough to make every blood cell in Tinsley’s body plumet to sub zero. She’d noticed the bruises. Ms. Goldsworth stood up from her chair, revealing her cherry red sparkling dress. It had an off-the-shoulder neckline that shaped into a V at her sternum. The long sleeves matched the floor length skirt, her left leg exposed in a slit under the accentuated hourglass shape of the waist. 

“Ricardo, ¿quién te hizo eso?” Her voice was so level; it made Tinsley fear for his life. The matriarch reached out her right hand to hold her son’s jaw, examining the damage. 

“It was nothing, Mamá. Don’t worry about it,” the gilded man dismissed, brushing her hand away. 

“Those bruises? Those were Detective Tinsley’s doing,” Miss Norris informed, glancing up from her copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s _The Great Gatsby_ long enough to assess the situation. 

If he wasn’t so petrified in that moment, Tinsley would’ve wanted to scream furiously at the spy. But as it was, he was currently pinned under a wrath comparable to God’s by Ms. Goldsworth and there was no room for any other thoughts in his mind beside _RUN_. 

“Detective? Care to explain?” 

Before Tinsley could say anything, the elite confronted his mother. “I said it was nothing, Mamá.” He couldn’t help but feel confused; surely Ricky Goldsworth wasn’t protecting him. 

“You should ask your son that question, not our esteemed guest, Lucy,” Frank once again interjected. She placed a bookmark inside the pages of the novel and crossed a leg over the other, her white and gold loose flapper dress shifting under the change. The spy leaned forward onto the table and rested her head onto her hand, the muscles under her dark skin visible because of the thin tank top straps of her dress. The proletariat didn’t miss the amused wink she threw at him. 

“Stay out of this, Francesca!” Ricky’s command was all for naught, Ms. Goldsworth had heard her ward’s suggestion and intended to heed it. 

“Oh, should I? _Enlighten me, hijo,_ ” she demanded, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. A chill crawled its way across Tinsley’s skin. 

Now out of the line of fire, Tinsley cautiously took the seat next to Miss Norris; very careful not to draw attention to himself. It wasn’t until he was at the table that he finally noticed Ms. Horsely was in attendance, seated across from him. The woman wore a plain black suit with a white button down, a black bow tie tied around her neck. Her blonde and grey hair was pulled back in a messy but classy bun with a few stray pieces hanging down around her face. Horsely hands were firmly wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee. Her scowl was so intimidating that he had to fight the urge to back away with his hands up in surrender. The purple bags hanging under her eyes said how restful her night was. 

“Estoy esperando, Ricardo.” The woman crossed her arms over her chest, red glitter sparkling in the sunlight. “I want to know word for word what you said.” 

The panic Ms. Goldsworth’s son felt was subtle in his body language. He glanced at Tinsley before speaking: “‘Apuesto a que la sobrina de sus deseos ella tenía un mejor guardián que usted, viendo como usted apenas puede tomar cuidado de se. De hecho, apuesto que ella desea que fueron ustedes los que fueron asesinados esa noche, no sus padres.’” 

For a moment, Lucy didn’t seem to even breathe. Seconds passed.

_Slap!_

The back of Ms. Goldsworth’s hand collided violently with her son’s cheek. Tinsley didn’t even have to understand Spanish to recognize the validity of her motive, having been there when the line was first spoken. But that didn’t stop him from being reminded of all the times his father did that to him with no plausible explanation other than the fact that he wanted to. 

At first, the detective thought the criminal would retaliate, but he acquiesced to the punishment. Tinsley understood then, Ricky wasn’t trying to protect Tinsley from Lucy, but rather himself. 

A stifled snort to his left made the detective whip his head in that direction. Miss Norris was clearly very amused. 

“¡Cómo te atreves! ¡Te enseñé mejor que eso, Ricardo!” The morally golden woman screamed. 

“Mamá, yo-” Lucy whacked her son on the back of the head.

“¡Silencio, niño! ¡Tienes suerte de que no te pegue tanto como el detective!”

“Lucy is appalled by Ricky’s lack of manners. ‘You’re lucky I’m not beating you like the Detective did’,” Frankie translated, whispering into his ear. Well, that was a lot to unpack. 

“¿Nos está haciendo un favor tratando de encontrar a tu padre y tú crió a su familia masacrada? ¡Deberías estar avergonzado de ti mismo, Ricardo! ¡Así no tratamos a las personas a las que estamos en deuda!” Lucy’s voice was beginning to become raspy and ragged. Her illness wouldn’t allow her to yell as she was. 

“Uh… she’s saying Ricky should be ashamed by the way he brought up your family like that, that it’s not how they treat people they’re indebted to,” Frank continued, amusement leaking into her interpretation. 

Tinsley was only half listening to the spy. He instead was very focused on the elite who was progressively becoming meeker with each of Ms. Goldsworth’s words. This was puzzling as it was the complete opposite to how the man reacted the previous times he was reprimanded. 

“Vas a aplaudir justo en este instante Ricardo Leonardo o yo haré que Frankie tome tu lugar con el detective Tinsley para encontrar a Henry. ¿Entender?” The mother pointed a finger in her son's face, then at Tinsley. 

At the look the gilded man shot Miss Norris, she burst out laughing.

“¡Cállate, Francesca!” Lucy commanded around a cough. Frank shut her mouth instantly, a smile threatening to break on her pursed lips. 

“Debería me apretó-” Goldsworth started. 

“Oh, for _God’s sake!_ Swallow your damn pride for once in your life, Ricky! I’m so _sick_ of your _bitching!_ ” Holly slammed the mug she was holding onto the table. The glare she shot the heir was downright murderous. It seemed that Ms. Horsley wasn’t one to be lenient on low sleep. 

The only sound in the room at that time was Ms. Goldsworth’s coughing. Ricky’s jaw was clenched along with his fists, visibly holding himself back from either violence or from spewing words he’d later regret. 

Hiding his mouth with his hand, Ricky closed his eyes. With a sigh, he addressed Tinsley: “I’m sorry, Detective.” 

“For…?” his mother pressed, making a “get on with it” gesture with the bloody napkin in her hand. 

Another deep sigh. “For bringing up your dead family. That’s not how the Goldsworths treat the people they owe.” After he was finished, Ricky looked over at Lucy for approval. 

“It’s...It’s ok,” Tinsley hesitantly relinquished, nervously glancing back and forth between the mother and son.

Lucy nodded around her napkin, seeming satisfied. “Siéntate y cállate, amor. Cómete el desayuno.” 

Ricky did as he was told, taking the seat next to his mother and across from Frankie. He refused to meet Tinsley’s confused gaze. 

As soon as everyone was seated, the waiting staff set their food in front of them. The lids lifted off the plates to reveal a sizzling egg dish that smelled just as delicious as it looked. The sunny-side-up egg was atop some sort of flatbread that was smothered with some kind of tomato and onion mix. Tinsley had no idea what it was, but he’d be damned if his mouth wasn’t watering. 

Frank must’ve noticed his confusion because she leaned over towards the detective to speak. “Huevos rancheros, Detective. It’s fried eggs served on a corn tortilla and smothered in cooked salsa.” 

Feeling like an outsider, Tinsley glanced around the table, everyone else already digging into the egg dish. “What’s… what’s a tor-tortilla? And salsa? What’s that?” 

“You don’t know what a tortilla is, Long Legs?” Tinsley bristled at the smugness in Goldsworth’s words. He also knew that the embarrassment he was feeling was making his face pink, something he knew the gilded man was drinking in because he loved someone being knocked down a peg. 

“Ricardo,” the matriarch warned with a glare. 

“I can’t say I do, Ricky. Never had the pleasure of eating Mexican cuisine before,” the detective shot right back. This earned him a warm smile.

“You flatter us, cielo,” Lucy chirped, a hand placed over her heart. The term of endearment made a warmth flare in Tinsley’s heart that he hadn’t felt since he was sixteen. “The tortilla is the bread el huevo… the uh…” She trailed off trying to remember the word.

“The egg,” Holly supplied while cutting into her food. 

“Yes! The egg. Gracias, amor. It’s the bread that you see the egg and salsa sitting on. They’re made of ground up corn.” Ms. Goldsworth explained with a spark of excitement in her eyes. 

Tinsley felt the sudden overwhelming urge to protect this woman, to care for her like she was his own mother. That feeling manifested as a fond smile on his face, a small one. Ricky wore a matching expression. 

“Sounds delicious! I simply _have_ to try it now,” the detective declared while picking up his fork. The excited smile on Lucy’s face made her look younger, less stressed and sickly. 

The flavor was a mix of sweet and savory, the egg complimenting the onion well. “This is amazing, Ms. Goldsworth.”

The mother smiled and nodded. 

“So, Detective. Sie sprechen Deutsch?” Frank asked before taking another bite of tomato. There was a grin on her features that could only be described as impish; it matched the devious glint in her eyes. 

“Nun ja, Woher Wusstest du das?” The proletariat was suddenly very afraid as to where this conversation was headed. 

“Wir haben Euch beide Letzte Nacht gehört. Jeder einzelne von uns, Detektiv,” Ms. Horsley grumbled bitterly. Ah, so that’s why she didn’t get much sleep. 

“‘Ihr beide?’” Tinsley reiterated slightly bewildered, glancing at his counterpart next to Holly. He also wore a confused expression, albeit a lot less flustered. 

“You boys weren’t exactly quiet,” Frankie implied with a wink. And wow, Tinsley _really_ wanted to melt into the carpet. It was a nice carpet, a pretty powder blue. 

The horrified expression the detective was wearing told Ricky all he needed to know. The gilded man dropped his fork onto the table, his eyes wide and mouth pressed into a very fine line. 

“You’re lucky you finished when you did, I was very close to going up there and executing you both,” Holly growled, glaring daggers at both the proletariat and the elite. They both were too embarrassed to speak. 

“That’s the loudest you’ve ever been, Ricky. Debe haber sido fenomenal, estoy celosa,” Francesca admitted behind her hand placed at the corner of her mouth. She did nothing to lower her tone, betraying the gesture meant to relay a secret. 

“No tengo nada que decirte, Frankie querido,” Goldsworth smoothly replied, contrary to the brightness of his blush. The spy giggled smugly at Ricky. 

“I really should be thanking you guys. You earned me $15,” Miss Norris announced. This earned her a defeated sigh from the other two women seated at the table. 

“What? How did we do that?” Tinsley questioned. 

“Oh yeah, another thing to add to the ever growing list of pros to off the both of you,” Ms. Horsely growled while digging around in her pocket. She slammed a fiver onto the table so hard it rattled the dishes and chandelier, sliding it begrudgingly towards Frank. “You sex fiends couldn’t have kept it in your pants for _one more godforesaken night??_ ”

“You guys _bet money_ on when Tinsley and I would sleep together?!” Ricky screamed in a voice much higher than his usual tenor. 

Ms. Goldsworth called the Mayor over, his face perfectly indifferent to everything going on around him. When he reached the table, the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a pearlescent wallet, proceeding to hand it over to the madame of the house. She unclasped the snaps on the top and produced a five dollar bill, also slipping it over to the smug young woman to her right. 

The gilded man watched in pure shock as the event happened. “You too, Mamá?!” 

“You know I’m not a gambling woman, cariño. It was a matter of who knew you best; it seems that I forgot to take into account how gorgeous Detective Tinsley is and how weak you are for pretty things,” the matriarch explained, her left hand lovingly stroking the top of her son’s right. 

Tinsley felt numb. His brain was just a series of static instead of thoughts. He stared into his plate unseeing, the embarrassment finally making his brain quit. 

“¿Qué apostaste?” 

“A week from now,” Lucy admitted calmly, taking a sip from her teacup. 

At the admission, Goldsworth fell back into his chair in bewilderment. His face was comparable to the salsa on his plate. 

The evil cackling coming from Francesca was the only noise in the room. It was a while before either man moved. Tinsley was the first; he took a shaky bite of food. 

“Du musst mir beibringen, wie du Ricky eines Tages die Klappe hältst,” Frank whispered into the detective’s ear just as he was about to swallow his food, causing him to choke. Ms. Norris giggled at Tinsley’s reaction. A truly nefarious woman.

+++

The rest of breakfast was fairly smooth,now that the elephant was out of the room. Tinsley can’t say he remembered what was said, though.

As soon as he was finished, he excused himself to make a call. With how eventful the past couple days were, the detective needed a break to take a damned breath. 

Making his way back into the library, he checked his watch to find out what time it was back in Chicago. He was too aware that he was sitting right next to the files room. 

He dialed the familiar number into the rotary, his office number. It rang twice before the most familiar voice he knew was filling the speaker. 

“Detective Tinsley’s office, this is Jeneane.” 

“You have no idea how much I needed to hear your voice, Jeanie,” the uncle sighed, a smile naturally falling onto his face. 

“Not that I also don’t miss you, but what happened?” Always straight to the point, that girl. 

“If it’s the same to you, I’d much rather hear about how you’ve been,” he pleads, hoping she’ll just forget what she asked him. 

“You want to hear about how much I’ve been cleaning your house?” 

“Yeah, humor me, Jeneane,” the detective said weakly, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Well to start, I dusted since it seems you don’t know how. I know why you’re always complaining about allergies, Uncle Colton; I was coughing and sneezing as much as you while wiping everything down,” she teased. He didn’t dare interrupt her; he didn’t want to. Tinsley didn’t have the words to describe how much she missed her. 

“After that I went through your ice box. Seriously, Tinsley. If it’s no longer the same color as when you bought it, you need to toss it.” Jeneane made a disgusted noise that made him laugh. 

“You remember how to make a withdrawal from the bank, right? I don’t need you committing crimes to feed yourself,” he teased his niece right back. It was so easy to fall back into that rhythm with her. 

“Even if I did you’d have no way of stopping me. No one would,” she cackled. The smile on Tinsley’s face split it nearly in half. “Yes I do, don’t worry. But that doesn’t mean that I won’t commit arson.” 

The man sighed heavily, that smile still on his lips. “You’re right, I can’t stop you. But Sgt. Collins can.” This made his niece pause. 

“You wouldn’t,” she muttered. 

“I already asked him to keep an eye on you for me,” he admitted, adjusting his glasses. “So if you do need anything, just give him a call.” 

“You’ve already told me this.”

“And I’m telling you again because I need to know that you know, alright?” Tinsley stressed, pausing to take a breath. “Look, I know I’m not your father. I can never replace him, but I am your guardian and it’s my job to take care of you. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if something happened to you.” 

“Don’t say that, I love you, Uncle Colton. Did something happen? Did someone say something to you?” Goddamn she really knew how to get right to the heart of the issue. 

“Everything’s fine, don’t worry about-”

“It was Ricky Goldsworth, wasn’t it? He said something about my parents,” she yelled, her anger spiking. 

“Jen, no, it’s- Ricky didn’t do anything. It’s nothing to get upset over,” Tinsley countered, feeling like he was suddenly being watched. The detective looked around the library, not finding anyone. 

“I swear to the Lord Almighty, I will take a train out there right now to kick his gangster ass-”

“ _Jeneane Marie Walker!_ ” Fuck, he hated raising his voice at her. “Please, calm down. I appreciate that you want to protect me, but I can handle myself, alright?” 

Jeneane took a shaky breath to calm herself. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I just-I know how much Mom’s death affects you and I hate to see you like that.” 

What a bittersweet statement. “Thank you, Jeanie. But you don’t have to worry about me, that should be my job.”

“Yeah, but you suck at it, so someone had to pick up your slack,” his niece teased. Silence took over the line soon after.

“I did beat him up pretty good after what he said,” the uncle admitted, a smile returning. 

“He deserved it, that rat,” she giggled. That bubbly sound sparked so much joy in the man’s heart. 

“You have no idea.”

It was after he said that the detective noticed that Goldsworth was standing in front of him.

“I’ve gotta go now, Jen. I love you, take care of yourself,” he rushed quietly, not taking his eyes off the forest green figure. 

“I love you too, be careful,” Jeneane requited. Tinsley hung the phone on the cradle once she was finished. He stood to his full height as a wave of violation surged up in his chest. 

“You make it a habit to spy on all the people you employ, or do I just get special treatment?” He bit, a sneer replacing the smile he once had. 

“What on earth are you referring to, Detective?” It was comical how Goldsworth bat his eyelashes. 

“Don’t you fucking act all coy with me, boy. I know Holly was watching me for a few days before I was flown here and now you’re listening in on my phone calls,” the detective snarled, taking a step towards the other man. 

“A little self-centered to assume that, no?” The tremor in the gilded man’s voice betrayed his calm demeanor. He was avoiding the issue.

At this point, Tinsley managed to back Ricky into one of the shelves, his back pushing the spines on the volumes in various directions. 

“It’s not assuming when I know it’s a fact. So why’re you eavesdropping, gingerbread?” Tinsley’s left hand was stretched just next to his counterpart’s head, closing him in.

“Ooo, I _love_ it when you get all alpha on me, Tin Man. Makes me feel some kind of way,” the elite purred, slithering his hands down the detective’s torso. 

Unamused, the lawman suddenly grabbed the criminal’s wrists in a vice grip with his hands, pinning them above Ricky’s head. “Stop dodging the question, doll.” 

Goldsworth visibly swallowed; whether or not he was nervous or aroused Tinsley didn’t want to know. “I-I wasn’t...eavesdropping. I was waiting for you to be done with your call so we could continue the investigation. It’s not my fault you talk so loud,” he conceded. 

The older man could feel his right eyebrow arching up on its own volition as he weighed his counterpart’s statement. He believed him, after the debate in his head waged. With a sigh he released the man’s wrists and took a step back, it was way too early for this kind of behavior. 

“Fine, whatever,” the detective sighed. “I have a feeling the person I intend to interview next won’t talk to me unless you’re there anyway.” 

Ricky absentmindedly rubbed at his wrist. “And who do you suppose that would be, Detective?”

“Your head of staff: the Mayor.” Tinsley’s fingers raked through his hair, the elite watching them like he was mesmerized. 

“The _Mayor?_ Why him?” Goldsworth’s brow knit together in a way that made him look far more naive than he truly was. 

“As far as I can tell, he’s been loyal to your family for a long time and is always in the shadows whether you see him or not,” the sleuth explained though he felt he really shouldn’t have had to. 

“Well you’re right about that. He’s been instructed to not answer any questions about the family without one of us present; that and the other thing you said,” the heir admitted. What a weird experience, hearing Ricky Goldsworth say the words “you’re right”. 

The detective shook that off for the time being to focus on the task at hand. “You know where we can find him?” 

“At this time of day pinning him down is easier than you are, Tinsley dearest,” that little shit purred, throwing Tinsley a wink with his jab at the man. 

The lawman rolled his eyes at the statement. “ _Such a damn brat,_ ”

+++

Turns out, Ricky was right. It _was_ easy to find the Mayor. He was sentry in Ms. Goldsworth’s office while she was in a meeting.

When the heir barged in, every single set of eyes fell in the pair. They were intruding on what looked to be important business. Lucy was sitting in a plush leather chair across a man Tinsley had never seen before who was dressed in an expensive suit, looking as nervous as a sinner in church. To the boss’s right was Ms. Horsley with a notepad and fountain pen in her hands, reading glasses perched low on her nose. The nervous man in his mid fifties had to twist around in his seat to look at who just came through the door. 

“Cariño, what are you doing here? You know better than to just walk in while Mamá is in the middle of a meeting,” Lucy reminded, a threat subtly laced into the words. It wasn’t hard to see her fist was clenching against her mouth. 

“Ah- right, lo siento,” her son meekly replied. It seemed he forgot that in his haste to find the Mayor. Ms. Goldsworth sighed. 

“Ricky, you remember Senator Hiram Johnson?” The matriarch gestured at the man, something in her eyes that was not flattering as she said his name. Johnson looked over at the heir and his eyes widened slightly, noticing the bruises no doubt.

Tinsley watched as the elite clenched his jaw and nodded his head in a greeting. “Senator.” 

“And of course, Detective C.C. Tinsley,” Lucy introduced with an open palm in his direction. The detective also nodded at the Senator. 

“Good morning,” Tinsley greeted. 

Rather than reply, Johnson turned to Ms. Goldsworth with wide eyes, the white-knuckle grip on his hat becoming tighter. “Detective?” 

Amusement flashed in the mob boss’s eyes briefly while she glanced at Tinsley. “Not to worry, Senator Johnson. Detective Tinsley’s presence here is strictly for personal reasons.” A diplomatic smile graced her lips but never reached her eyes. 

Johnson visibly relaxed, his grip still tight on his hat, however. 

“So, your reason for barging in on your mother’s business, Ricardo?” Holly peered over at the pair standing in the doorway, an annoyed lift to her eyebrow. 

“We’d like to speak to the Mayor, if that’s alright with you ma’am,” Tinsley smoothly relayed with a warm smile directed at Ms. Goldsworth. It worked like a damn charm. 

“Oh, well of course, Detective! You didn’t have to ask my permission,” she cooed, a flattered look falling onto her face. When she turned to call over her butler, Ricky rolled his eyes at the situation. The detective couldn’t resist throwing a smug wink at his counterpart in response. Having charm is what got him this far in his line of work, it was a vital tool in his kit. 

The Mayor finally stepped out from the background of the office, first coming to Ms. Goldsworth’s side. After the matriarch instructed him to go with the pair was when he finally went over to the door. “Master Ricky, Detective Tinsley.” He bowed to the both of them. 

“Mayor, take us to a private location,” the elite commanded without so much as a please. 

“ _Please_ ,” Tinsley added, throwing a glare in the gilded man’s direction. “We just need you to answer a few questions.”

“¡Escucha eso! ¡Por favor! Tal vez el detective sea una influencia positiva en ti,” Lucy chimed in, a pointed look locked onto her son. 

The elite merely rolled his eyes and left the room, leaving Tinsley more than slightly confused. He glanced over at the mother and took in her amused smile. 

“Run along, now before Ricardo decides to stomp away too far,” she dismissed at both the remaining men. 

“Of course. Good day, Ms. Goldsworth, Ms. Horsley, Senator.” The detective gave a respectful nod and proceeded to follow the gilded man down the hallway, the Mayor in tow. 

“Why is a senator meeting with your mother?” Tinsley asked once he finally caught up to the heir. For a moment, Tinsley thought Ricky wasn’t going to answer. 

“He’s trying to get an ‘endorsement’ from us to have a better chance at winning the next election. Johnson’s in there now cutting a deal to guarantee his win, probably offering his loyalty and to make sure the feds stay out of our way.” 

“When you say ‘guarantee his win’-”

“He wants us to rig the election, yes.” Ricky registered the troubled look on the lawman’s face. “Oh, don’t give me that, doll. It’s a lot more common than you think.”

Before Tinsley could even open his mouth to ask for more information, Goldsworth stopped in front of a closed set of double doors. “Mayor, if you please.”

The servant came forward and produced a key from his breast pocket, swinging the door open and holding it so the other two could enter. The blue collar was about to pass judgement about the elite not being able to open the door himself when he was interrupted. 

“It’s my mother’s personal library. The only two people who have the key are Mamá and the Mayor,” the gilded man explained like he was able to read the detective’s mind. 

“Sounds like a fire hazard,” the proletariat commented. 

“You gentleman said you had questions for me?” The Mayor prompted after locking the door behind him. Even though his face was perfectly neutral, Tinsley could see the eagerness in the butler’s eyes. He wanted this over as soon as possible so he could go back to Ms. Goldsworth’s side.

“Yes, of course.” The sleuth pushed his holster to the side to pull out his pen and paper from the pocket in his blazer. “Is there a place we can sit down?” 

The Mayor motioned for them to follow him, taking them further into the fully stocked bookcases that reached for the Almighty. They reached a desk that had two dark leather lounge chairs sat in front of it, the Mayor taking the seat behind the desk.

“Alright, to start, I just want to thank you for your time. I know you’re a busy man,” the detective started, adjusting in his chair along with Ricky. 

“Thank you, Detective.” His response was clipped. 

“Do you mind me asking your name? Something tells me I won’t find ‘Mayor’ on your birth certificate,” Tinsley jokingly added. It didn’t go well. The Mayor is a no nonsense kind of man, it seems. 

“My name is Damian Walsh, but I’d much prefer if you’d call me the Mayor,” he informed with a stern tone. 

The private detective nodded, catching the gilded man’s face out of the corner of his eye. It was one of shock. “What’s with the face, kitten?” 

“ _Damian Walsh?_ Your name is Damian Walsh?” Goldsworth pointedly ignored the pet name. 

“You’re telling me that for the 20 plus years you’ve lived with the Mayor, you never thought to stop and _ask?_ ” The lawman asked incredulously. 

“It never occurred to me, alright? Everyone has been calling him the Mayor since he started working for the family,” the elite defended, his embarrassment flushing his face. 

“ _Fine._ Setting that aside, could you tell me the last time you say Henry?” 

“March 11th, 1910,” the reply came with little thought. 

Pushing past the strong feelings that are tied to the date, Tinsley looked back in his notes on Ms. Goldsworth’s interview. The date matched up. 

“Where’s Henry now?” The detective whipped his head in the heir’s direction along with the Mayor. 

“Alright, sure. Let’s just throw out my process and get straight to the point, then,” the older man muttered while pinching the bridge of his nose under his glasses. 

It took a moment for the lawman to realise that the butler was nervous. “Mistress Lucy told you that Henry talked about going to New Orleans, yes?” 

The sleuth murmured a quick affirmation and glanced at Ricky. He had a sneaking suspicion as to where this was going and he very suddenly feared for the Mayor’s life. 

“Well,” the servant cleared his throat and nervously flicked his gaze at Ms. Goldsworth’s son. “That’s correct. Henry Koizumi is currently residing in New Orleans, Louisiana as Herne Kennedy.” 

Just like before, that same feeling of the calm before the storm broiled in the atmosphere. All eyes were on the murderer. 

“How long did you know this, Mayor?” The strain in his voice said just how much Ricky was holding himself back. 

“Since 1912, sir,” the Mayor admitted, the fear tangible in his demeanor. 

“You _son_ of a _bitch!!_ ” The criminal surged up from his chair and onto his feet, his anger seething.

“Master Ricardo, please-”

“You knew for _fifteen years_ and didn’t tell any of us?!” He was advancing on the servant, stepping behind the desk to grab the man by his lapels. 

“Please listen to me, son-” 

“ _Shut your filthy mouth, ¡traidor! You’re a dead man, Mayor!! You understand?! Dead!!!_ ” A vice grip on his shoulder is what yanked Ricky from the butler. 

“That’s _enough,_ Ricky,” Tinsley commanded, his tone and the fierceness in his eyes leaving no room for protest. Even after Goldsworth released the Mayor, the detective kept his hand on the man’s shoulder; it acted as the only defense against Ricky’s wrath. 

“Tinsley, you don’t understand-”

“Oh, I understand just fine. Don’t make the mistake in thinking you’re the only in this room with a motive for seeking revenge against someone.” This seemed to quell his anger slightly as Goldsworth finally looked away from the Mayor. “Ricky, go sit down, _now_.”

Surprisingly, he did as was told. 

“Alright, Mayor. I think it’s about time you give an explanation before I won’t be able to control your boss here anymore,” the lawman prompted, remaining standing so as to have a better chance at preventing an attack. 

“Yes, of course. Thank you, sir,” the Mayor said as he attempted to smooth out the creases in his lapels caused by the murderer. Tinsley took this pause to write down the name the butler provided. 

“I was ordered to keep this a secret by Leonardo Goldsworth, your grandfather, Ricardo. Leonardo said to me that you and Lucy must never know as it would drive you both to madness trying to exact revenge. Mr. Goldsworth hoped that Lucy would be able to lead better if Henry was forgotten.” Once his explanation was finished, the Mayor reached into his pocket to pull out an old looking piece of paper. “Please read this, Ricardo. It’s a note from Abuelo Leonardo.”

Tinsley acted as the messenger, ferrying the note from the servant to the gilded man; he didn’t trust that Ricky wouldn’t try to maim the Mayor if he was close enough. As soon as the parchment was in his hands, Goldsworth unfolded it. 

“How did he do that? How’d Leonardo know that?” The lawman questioned, his eyes focused on his counterpart’s face.

“He had used his connections and agents to track Koizumi’s move down to Louisiana right before he died. The only people who knew were Leonardo, me, and Moses French; he acted as the Goldsworth’s personal lawyer before Ms. Horsely took his place,” the butler answered, his eyes also trained on the youngest one in the room. 

The clock on the desk said that only a minute passed between when the Mayor stopped talking and Ricky looked up from the note, but it must’ve lied as it felt so much longer than that. 

“You’re fired,” the elite whispered. 

“E-excuse me?”

“I said, ‘you’re fired’. Get the fuck out of my sight right now, or I’ll have you executed.” 

“No, you’re not, Mayor,” Tinsley interjected. 

“The _hell_ he isn’t!!” Goldsworth roared, his face turning red. 

The detective, totally nonplussed by this fit of anger, marched right up to the gilded man and plucked the paper from his hands. Ignoring the indignant protests from his counterpart, the lawman gave the note back to the Mayor. 

“Take this to Lucy and tell her everything you just told us. Go, _now,_ ” the sleuth instructed.

“Sir, I-”

“ _Damnit,_ Mayor, go before he kills you!” The yelling is what finally swayed the butler to leave. He muttered a quick “thank you” as he skittered past, the stern composure he once held all but gone with the fear of death by Ricky’s hands. 

“Why did you do that?! You’re not in charge here, cabrón, I-”

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ , Goldsworth!! Shut your Godless mouth!!” Much to the detective’s fear, this event was starting to look like it was following the path of the prior day in the files room. 

The criminal was attempting to size Tinsley up, his teeth bared and hands balled into fists at his sides.

“Were you even hearing yourself? You threatened him twice and probably would’ve killed him if I wasn’t here to intervene. Do you understand? The Mayor would be dead right now because of _you_ , and what would that have solved?? Control your damn anger before you do something regrettable; murder isn’t the fucking answer!” 

Right as it seemed the murderer was about to take a swing at the older man, he instead kicked the desk. It went skidding into the wall, the wood impacting and cracking the drywall. “ _¡Incluso en la tumba ese bastardo está tratando de molestarme!_ ”

The detective decided to wait out the man’s anger, watching him pace and growl things under his breath. It wasn’t until he stopped prowling like a mountain lion that Tinsley attempted to talk to him again. 

“Let’s get outta here, I need to make a call,” he posited, grabbing hold of the gilded man’s left shoulder. 

“Then leave, there’s no reason you can’t do that by yourself, cabrón,” Goldsworth spat and shook the hand off his shoulder.

“Yeah, like hell I’m leaving you by yourself right now. I don’t trust you won’t go after the Mayor the second you’re out of sight,” the sleuth countered. 

“What makes you think you have _any_ control over me?? I don’t have to listen to anyone besides myself!!” 

“And that’s the problem, isn’t it? That’s the reason you cause so much pain is because you refuse to have even a shred of empathy or rationality.” Tinsley paused to gauge how his counterpart would react to his next thought. “It’s about fucking time you shut your damn mouth and _listen_.” 

By some grace of God, Ricky decided to take the proletariat’s words into account and quell his anger to human levels. “ _Fine._ Lead the way,” he gritted out.

+++

They ended up in the room Tinsley was staying in as he made the call he previously mentioned. The elite stayed out on the balcony, fuming and refusing to be in the same room as the lawman.

The detective was currently standing in by his bed with the receiver in his hand. He was waiting for the operator to connect his call. Checking his watch, he’d noticed that he’d been on the line for about thirty minutes. 

“Detective Percival Gage speaking,” a voice finally spoke. 

“Detective Gage, it’s Detective Tinsley. How are you, sir?” 

“Detective Tinsley, it’s been a while. I’ve been fine, busy with work. And what about you? How’s Jeneane?” The man’s voice softened almost immediately upon hearing Tinsley’s name. 

“Oh, she’s just fine. Grew up a pistol just like her mother; she wants to be a lawyer,” the uncle informed, unaware of the smile that falls on his face every time his niece is brought up. 

“That’s good to hear. And is she handling the trauma well?” 

“Thankfully I think she was too young to really understand at the time, but she does tell me about nightmares she’ll get occasionally about it,” Tinsley replied whilst trying to keep his emotions and thoughts in line.

“Well, that’s one thing off my conscience, at least. Though, I can’t remember much from when I was six either,” Detective Gage professed, a reluctance in his words. “Colton, listen, I know I’ve said this multiple times, but I’m truly sorry we were never able to catch that son of a bitch. The Axeman killings are the ones that keep me up at night, your family’s in particular. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about them.” 

“I know, Percival, I know,” Tinsley choked, trying to keep his tears at bay and making his voice ragged. “I know you did everything you could. I don’t blame you; it’s not your fault.” 

The line went silent for a moment as both men tried their hardest to shut off their emotions and man up. 

“So, uh,” Percival croaked, clearing his throat to try and speak around the lump in it. “Why’d you call?” 

“Right. I’m working a case right now that has a person of interest in your city. I was hoping you’d do me a favor and look him up when you have the time.” 

“It’s the least I could do. Got a name for me?” Rustling could be on the other line as Detective Gage positioned the phone to grab a pen and piece of paper. 

“Yep, Henry Koizumi: K-O-I-Z-U-M-I. He supposedly goes by the name Herne Kennedy: H-E-R-N-E. I’m headed down there in a few days to try and find the rat bastard.” 

Detective Gage read the spelling back to Tinsley to confirm. “When you do, don’t be a stranger and look me up, alright?” 

“Will do, Percy,” he promised. 

“Alright, I’ll call you tomorrow with what I find. Have a good night, Tinsley.” 

“Thank you Gage. You do the same.” With that, the line went dead and the sleuth hung up the phone. 

“Who were you on the phone with?” The blue collar turned around to find the heir leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. He seemed to be significantly calmer than forty minutes earlier. 

“Detective Percival Gage with the New Orleans police department,” he relayed, turning to face his counterpart. He mirrored Goldsworth's stance unknowingly. 

“Why’d you call him?” 

“He owed me a favor,” Tinsley sharply answered. He really didn’t wish to elaborate more than that; thankfully he didn’t need to. Right as Ricky was going to ask for more information, the door to the room was opened. 

“I hope you’re both dressed in there because I’m coming in!” Who else but Miss Francesca Norris was dwelling in the doorway. 

The proletariat turned to face the woman and his jaw dropped. She’d exchanged her white and gold flapper dress for a form fitting black silk evening gown. It was strapless and had a sweetheart neckline, a corset cinching her waistline. The silk was floor length with a slit along the left leg that exposed a garter belt and sheer silk black stockings, jet black stiletto heels were on her feet. For accessories, Frank had a choker made of pearls coiled around her neck and black lace opera gloves painted onto her arms. _Is it a damn requirement to be drop-dead gorgeous to live in this house??_

“What do you want, Frankie dear?” The functioning man asked from behind Tinsley. Frank, having noticed how stunned the detective was, threw a wink at him. 

“Maybe I just wanted to talk to my boys, ever think of that?” She shot back, planting her hand on her hip. She brushed a stray hair from her forehead and into her styled wavy bob. 

“Not dressed like that, no you don’t. You’re about to go on a job. So why are you here, really?” Ricky refuted, finally snapping the detective from his stupor with a light shove of his shoulder.

“You’re no fun, Gold Boy, no fun at all,” the woman sighed defeatedly. She strode her way to the bed and sat down on the edge. “Lucy sent me up here to tell you that she forgives the Mayor and that you should do the same.” 

The gilded man visibly stiffened, setting his jaw and looking out the glass doors. “It’s gonna take me a long damn time. And you know it’s not him that I’m the most furious at.” 

“Lo sé, Ricky,” Miss Norris empathized, her brow knitting ever so slightly. “She also said that if you attempted to fire the Mayor again she would send you to the Redwood Cabin without a second thought.”

This made Goldsworth whip his head in Frank’s direction so fast he should’ve snapped his neck. His eyes were as wide as dinner plates and all the color blanched from his face. “You’re bluffing.” 

“Am I?” She claimed, her eyelashes fluttering as she batted her eyes innocently. Norris stood up from the mattress and made her way to the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me, boys. I’ve got men to seduce from rival families and take information to steal.” She seemed to gag on the words “men to seduce”.

The spy opened the door and spoke over her shoulder: “Good day, boys. Try to keep the moans to a moderate volume tonight, yeah?” And left with a cheeky wink before closing the door behind her. 

Tinsley could feel how warm his face was from the blush that rose at the woman’s taunt. He rubbed at the back of his neck and turned to his counterpart. Ricky also had a vibrant pink hue to his face. 

“Wretched woman,” he muttered, though it was very clear he didn’t mean it. In fact, the detective had the suspicion that if Miss Norris was here to hear it, she simply would’ve grinned and laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you guys aren't in love with Frank by the end of this then I've failed
> 
> An update less than a month after my last one?? Who is she??
> 
> Also fun fact: it's really hard to type with fake nails on


	7. Way Out There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I feel like I should address this. Last chapter I mentioned election fraud and rigging elections being "common" and I realize now that that kinda made me seem like a tr*mp supporter and I want to clarify: I want to see that traitorous psychopath hanged for his crimes against the constitution. I hope none of you guys thought I actually supported that tupe wearing cheeto.

It had been a week since that incident with the Mayor occurred in his mother’s private library. And because Ricky was the one who damaged the wall, he was the one required to fix it. It was that or spend a week in the Redwood cabin, so he picked up a putty knife and for once, covered it in drywall rather than blood. Ms. Goldsworth- because she had it out for her son- ordered that Detective Tinsley be there while he fixed the wall; something about integrity or the like. 

So that’s how the detective and Ricky’s best friend got close. Frank, having nothing to do between spy missions, and Tinsley, forced to be there and getting a kick out of watching Goldsworth struggle. The bonding began with their apparent taste for both men and women; which wasn’t much of a surprise to Ricky, if he’s being honest. But then it kept spiraling, talking about their literary choices and love for desserts. Most of the time, they’d talk in German so Ricky couldn’t participate in the conversations. It was unbelievably frustrating. 

The elite wasn’t blind. Even though he wasn’t romantically interested in women, he knew how stunning Frank was; he also knew that Tinsley knew this fact as well, he saw how he looked at her. And every time he was reminded of this fact, Ricky felt something close to anger stab at his chest; the same he felt that night he was in Frankie’s room after he killed the Dunn siblings. 

“So Miss Norris, where did you learn German?” the detective asked before taking a sip of his coffee. The both of them were perched atop the desk Ricky had sent into the wall he was tasked to fix. 

“Same place I learned all the languages I speak: the library,” she responded, her leg swinging off the furniture. “Where did you learn, Detective?”

Goldsworth is willing to admit that he was paying very close attention now; he’d wanted to know the same thing for a while. 

“Oh, my father forced all of his children to learn it, his mother having been born there,” he answered, a dark look falling over his features. It was very apparent that Tinsley wanted the subject to be dropped and all conversation stopped. 

“Ricky, you mentioned that the Mayor wasn’t who you were the most angry with. If you don’t mind me asking, who are you the most angry with?” This question made the gilded man freeze in his spot, the paintbrush pressed against the newly dried drywall. 

It took a good amount of time to debate whether or not he wanted that raggedy dime-a-dozen dick to know. “My grandfather. I’m furious at Leonardo because even after that bastard died, he’s _still_ trying to control me.” His grip tightened on the brush, creaking the handle. 

Goldsworth was quick to notice that the sleuth turned to Francesca for an explanation. She simply tilted her head towards Ricky; it wasn’t her place to tell. 

“But enough about me, though I know I’m an interesting conversation topic. What about you, Detective Tinsley?” The gilded man stood up and brushed the plaster dust off his knees, paintbrush still in hand. 

“What about me?” He asked cautiously, his mug hovering a few inches away from his lips. His eyebrows knitted together behind the frames of his glasses. 

Ricky sauntered right up to the desk, stopping directly in front of the lawman. “Well, since you’re so interested in my family history, I think it’s only fair I get to inquire about yours as well.” The elite had his hands on either side of Tinsley on the desk, leaning right into his personal space. 

An incredulously bitter laugh erupted from the older man, the force making him tip backwards ever so slightly. “Really?! Oh, that’s cute.” 

Goldsworth was taken aback. “What are you on about?” 

“You forfeited the right to ask innocently about my family the second you weaponized my sister’s murder against me,” Tinsley spat whilst staring down the man in front of him, a contained rage in his eyes. 

The white collar straightened up at this, suddenly feeling the need to size up the detective. “I already apologized-”

“Under the duress of your mother, as I recall. Yes, how _genuine_ of you, Ricky. That forced concession _really_ made me feel all fond of you.” 

“You accepted it, asshole!” 

Another bitter laugh from the detective. “I did, with about the same amount of authenticity as your apology.” 

Ricky was really taken aback by how Tinsley was acting. Even in the files room, he didn’t act like that. “Why are you acting this way??” 

“Acting what way? Like _you_?” The lawman set down his mug and stood up as well. 

As much as he hated to admit it, that one struck right at Ricky’s heart. He was left speechless because… well, he was right, wasn’t he? 

Tinsley took the lack of response as a que to continue. “We aren’t friends, Goldsworth. I’m a private detective you hired to find your father. So stop acting like there is or will be _anything_ between us.” As the detective took a step forward, the criminal took one step back. 

“Nothing between us, huh? Because I recall you being the one to cave the night we first had sex,” the gilded man retorted, never one to swallow his pride and back down. 

This made the blue collar pause, a flicker of disgust in his eyes as he processed the dialogue. “It was the biggest fucking mistake I’ve _ever_ made.” 

_Don’t let him win._

But that’s the thing, Tinsley already had already won. The only thing Ricky could respond with was: “Feeling’s mutual, Tin Man.” 

It took all the restraint he had not to just outright deck the detective. They’d already done that; it’d gotten them nowhere. So instead, he stormed out of the room; to where, he wasn’t sure yet. 

God, _fuck_ Tinsley! Fuck him and that whole damn argument! Who did he think he was, saying sleeping with Ricky was the biggest mistake of his life?! And while he’s at it, fuck him for flirting with his best friend right in front of him!! Fuck Frank for reciprocating! He told her to stay away from that rat scum and then she had the _audacity_ to flirt with him in Ricky’s face!! Goddamn did he want to murder someone; cut them open and use their intestines as a noose. 

Ricky stopped stone cold in his tracks; no he didn’t. For the first time since he was fourteen, he didn’t want to kill someone to bar his rage. It was just his first reaction to the anger, the one that was instilled in him from that age; hell, since he was able to comprehend language. Fuck, he felt dizzy. 

The murderer braced a hand on the nearest wall, holding his head with the other in the hopes to combat his abrupt tunnel vision. He felt cold, all his limbs coursing ice through his veins rather than blood. His stomach bile was betraying him and fighting to escape through his mouth. He felt like he couldn’t stand up anymore. 

God, had he never questioned his instincts like this before? And why now of all fucking times?? _Tinsley._

No, fuck him, he wasn’t why. He… he needed to speak with his mother, she would know what to do. 

He waited until that dizzy spell was over before he made the walk to Lucy’s office, his back flush against the wall and eyes pinched shut. He was insurmountably thankful that no one saw him like that.

+++

“I want to speak to Mamá,” the heir demanded, fighting off the tunnel vision and praying his struggle wasn’t noticeable.

The servant that stood in front of the door flicked his gaze along Ricky, an act that agitated him further. “I’m sorry sir, but Ms. Goldsworth isn’t seeing anyone right now.” 

“What are you talking about? I’m her son! Tell her it’s important!” The exertion of his yelling caused him to lean on the decorative table next to the door to fight his vertigo. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Goldsworth, but-”

“Ricky, keep your voice down!” 

Both men had their attention trained on the lawyer who just emerged from the room, a scowl directed at Ricky. He knew that look, it was the one she wore when reprimanding him. She pushed the reading glasses on her nose into her hair, the metal glinting in the sun like a crown.

“Holly, let me in. I need to talk to my mother,” the elite repeated. 

“Whatever you need to say can wait. She’s in a very important meeting right now,” Ms. Horsley informed, crossing her arms and furrowing her brow slightly. 

“No it can’t, I need to talk to her!” He felt a cold terror punch through his chest as he realized that he was on the brink of tears. 

“For God’s _sake_ Ricardo! Stop acting like a toddler throwing a damn tantrum and more like the Goldsworth heir that you are!! You’ve already done enough by interrupting the meeting with your yelling!” Even though she was talking at a normal volume, it had the same effect on the gilded man as if she were shrieking at him. “Lucy sent me out here to do damage control to stop you from embarrassing the family name any further than you already have.”

“But-” 

“No! Grow up, Ricky! Go whine about Detective Tinsley to Francesca; that’s not your mother’s job,” Holly continued, completely oblivious to how much harm she was causing her boss’s son. Although it seemed harsh, she deemed it necessary. A person could only bite their tongue for so long; it seemed that ten years was Ms. Horsley’s limit. 

Suddenly, it was hard to swallow, it was hard to breathe. The painful lump in Ricky’s throat saw to that. His eyes were stinging as he fought in vain to keep his tears at bay. 

_They can’t see you like this,_ a voice yelled that sounded frighteningly like Leonardo’s. 

So he ran. He turned on his heel, and bolted down the corridors of the family mansion. He once again wasn’t sure as to where he was going, he only knew he had to be somewhere else. Anywhere was better than the stifling walls of expectations and responsibility. 

Goldsworth knew he couldn’t drive like this, it was too dangerous. In his state he’d end up running some poor girl over with his car and then have his lover blamed for the whole affair. But where his feet were taking him it seemed he didn’t need a car. His legs pushed him through the hallways of the house, down a flight of stairs and through the bustling kitchen; stumbling into more than one servant along the way. He didn’t stop. He didn’t stop until his feet met the resistance of sand and even then, he kept pushing onward. It wasn’t until his vertigo finally took the driver’s seat that his knees fell into the sand, chest heaving as it worked harder to replenish the lost oxygen. 

The momentum of his fall didn’t end when Ricky fell to his knees. No, it forced the elite’s shoulders to take the same trajectory, only broken by his hands digging into the beach. The setting sun cast a golden film on the world, the reds, pinks, and oranges of the clouds bleeding together in a saturated watercolor of beauty. 

Ricky hated it. He hated that something so pretty was in front of him, taunting him. It betrayed how he felt, made a mockery of his misery. So to spite the sky, he forced his gaze down to the sun baked sand. It was borderline blistering against his skin from the heatwave; Goldsworth didn’t move. He deserved the pain, the scorching heat an excuse for his emotions. It was a distraction. 

The circular dark spots forming on the beach beneath him reminded him of what he was really upset about. And once he was reminded, the levee broke. 

All at once, every single emotion that he was never allowed to feel drowned him in an overwhelming tidal wave. It was too much. The amalgamation of emotions simply resulted in his sobbing; God, did he feel weak. The more he tried to stop, the more the tears flowed. 

At the center of it all was a single emotion: betrayal. He felt betrayed by Lucy for not being there for him. Betrayed by Holly for turning him away. Betrayed by Frank for not listening to him and disregarding his warning. Betrayed by the Mayor for lying to his family for years about Henry. Betrayed by Leonardo for the ruthless way he raised Ricky. And most of all, he felt betrayed by Detective Tinsley for being so damn deceitful. 

At first appearance, Tinsley seemed good mannered, charming, and lovely, but that was a fucking lie. He was a goddamn rat with a heart of frozen steel; the devil in a very handsome disguise. Always trying to take the moral high ground with his preaching against murder and violence, feigning respect and good manners. Fuck him. Murder _was_ the answer; it’s all he’s known.

_Stop fucking lying to yourself._

Ah hell, _fine!_ Ricky was willing to admit that he may just have the teeniest, tiniest amount of feelings for the stupid rat bastard. And to be very clear: it’s all Tinsley’s fucking fault. Wow, that was painful to finally admit.

Since he’s putting all his cards on the table; Goldsworth lied. He was eavesdropping on the detective’s call with his niece the other day. And it was that fucking call that started it all. It’s just… the way that fucker smiles when he’s talking to his niece, it was so loving and unique. It was so unique in fact that it took Ricky a good few minutes to actually place the emotion on the detective’s face. And the way he cared for her was unparalleled; the way Ricky just knew how far the man would go to protect her. It was just- it was unfair for the unprepared criminal. 

So when Tinsley snapped at him earlier? Told him that they’d never have anything between them and that the only intimacy they’d had was “the biggest mistake of my fucking life”? Yeah, that shit hurt. It shattered that loving image Ricky had of the lawman, the cold harshness of his words a cruel contrast to that phone call. It only proved what Goldsworth had known all along; that he’d been a fool for even entertaining the slightest possibility of getting someone to look at him the way Tinsley did for his niece. 

God, he was gonna be sick. Ricky could feel the acid burning the back of his throat and it took all the strength he had left to prevent it from exiting his body. Ricky Goldsworth was absolutely miserable.

“Ricky?” 

_Great! Just who I wanted to fucking see!_ He didn’t have to turn around to know it was Tinsley standing behind him. “Come to kick me when I’m down, Detective? I thought you were better than that.” The words had the same feeling as the stomach bile he’d just forced down. 

The sand to his right rustled as the tall idiot kneeled down next to him. Ricky kept his eyes on the sand. “No, no I uh- I wanted to come say sorry. I was out of line earlier and said some things I didn’t mean.” 

“Sure you are,” the heir said under his breath. “Look, I’m not in the mood for your shitty apology, so just fucking go away.” _Dear God, don’t listen to me._

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be alone right now,” the detective countered. This made Ricky snap his head in the direction of his counterpart. He’d said the same thing when he almost snapped the Mayor’s neck. He… he didn’t know how to feel about that.

He couldn’t look at Tinsley for long, though. Ricky didn’t want anyone to see him like that. The only thing that filled the silence between them was only filled by the crashing of waves and screaming of gulls. Ricky couldn’t stand it. 

“What were you gonna apologize for?”

The detective sighed wearily. “I didn’t mean what I said in there, I’m sorry. It seems we both have issues with anger management.”

The elite withdrew his hands from the sand and sat upright. “You said a lot of things, which ones are you taking back?” 

“Look, I meant what I said about you asking about my family. That I’m still pretty pissed about and it’s why I snapped at you,” Tinsley clarified. He took a breath and adjusted in the sand so that he was more comfortable. “But the other stuff… While I don’t consider us to be friends currently, I think that given some time, we could maybe be acquaintances.” 

Despite himself, the white collar laughed. It wasn’t a full on chortle, rather a surprised snort. “How much time are we talking here?” 

The proletariat took a theatrical pause to weigh his answer. “A decade, give or take a few years.” They chimed together in a bout of laughter that was so out of character for them, but neither one cared. Ricky was just too drained to keep up appearances. 

“I understand why you wouldn’t want to get close to me, though.” It was meant as a joke. 

“Yeah, but I can see right through you,” Tinsley admitted. The heir whipped his head in the direction of his counterpart, the detective gazing at the sunset rather than the other man. “You being all tough and intimidating, it’s all an act. That’s not the real you; the true Ricky Goldsworth is caring and loyal to the people he’s close to.” He finally made eye contact after he was finished speaking. 

Ricky had to force back tears as he absorbed the blue collar’s statement. He didn’t dare break eye contact. 

“That Ricky- the one who is fiercely protective of his mother and treats Francesca like his sister- him I can be friends with. But that’s still a ways off.” 

That made Goldsworth look away. “That’s not who I am.” 

“I think you’d surprise yourself,” Tinsley commented, standing up and brushing the sand off his clothes. He extended a hand to the gilded man after he was done. “C’mon, it’s getting dark and you haven’t eaten dinner yet.” 

The heir regarded the hand before he took it, suspicious of the sudden kindness he was being shown. The detective hauled him up out of the beach and the two of them walked back to the house, Ricky using the other man for stability every now and then when his dizziness reintroduced itself. They never dropped hands.

+++

Goldsworth was rudely awoken by the shrill trill of the phone. He grumbled and cursed, praying it would end. It didn’t.

“Answer it, damnit.” 

“If you’re so bothered, you do it.” 

“It’s your room.” 

The elite groaned, making sure to use more force than was necessary as he threw off the arm wrapped around his waist. The man stretched his arm out and blindly groped at the nightstand for the phone. In his haste, he knocked the receiver off the hook and sent it crashing onto the table. 

“Son of a bitch!” 

Finally getting a firm grasp on the godforsaken technology, he brought the wretched jawn up to his ear. “What?” 

“Good morning Mr. Goldsworth. This is Mikey calling from Ford,” the man introduced way too cheery for the hour. Ricky’s impatience was growing. 

“And the reason you’re calling me this early is…?” Ricky wasn’t exactly known for his manners and they were non-existent in the mornings. 

“Oh! Yes, sorry. Your plane, sir, it’s all fixed,” Mikey informed. The words woke him up faster than any caffeine could’ve. It was suddenly like the elite didn’t understand the concept of fatigue.

“You mean I can use it today?” A spark of excitement flourished in his chest.

“Yes sir! She’s ready to go airborne!” 

“Mikey, you son of a bitch, you’re a saint! Can I get your full name?” 

“Certainly, Mr. Goldsworth. The name’s Mikey Robinson, at your service,” the man relayed, a smile in his voice. The heir committed the name to memory. 

“Thank you, Mikey Robinson. You have a fantastic day!” Ricky chirped, his mood devoid of anything sour. 

“You do the same, sir!” And with that, the line went dead. He hung the phone on the cradle, unable to help the smile on his face. 

After running his hands through his hair, Ricky turned to address the other person in the bed. “Pack your bags, Tin Man. We’re flying to N’Orleans!” 

“Why’d you ask him for his full name?” Tinsley grumbled, still trying to process that he was actually awake. 

Goldsworth was buzzing fervently around his room, collecting clothes and other necessities for his suitcase. They accumulated in a rumpled pile in his arms as he tried to remember where he’d put his damn luggage. “Because, I’m gonna give that hero the reward he deserves.” 

The detective watched him curiously as he flitted around the room like a hummingbird. “You’re certainly in a good mood today,” he commented, getting progressively dizzier the longer he watched Goldsworth. 

“Don’t you understand? I’m now so damn close to catching Henry I can smell the greasy little weasel,” Ricky explained, pausing in the center of the room. 

“You do know that we still have no idea _where_ he is in New Orleans, right? Percival said the only thing he was able to find on him was an old arrest record for public intoxication,” the sleuth reminded. He’d sat up in the bed, the silk sheets bunching up around his hips and exposing his bare chest.

“I’m well aware, Tinsley dearest. But being here in California and completely powerless to search at all for him is astronomically worse,” the white collar countered, his agitation rearing its head only slightly. He knew the detective was merely trying to keep his expectations at a normal level. 

Tinsley seemed to accept that answer as he rose up from the mattress. He linked his pale hands together and extended them up towards the ceiling, his back facing the heir. His muscles rolled under pale skin, but that wasn’t what Ricky focused on. All over the detective’s back were scars, old pink scars that numbered in the thirty or forties. Some were long and thin, like he’d been lashed with a whip or belt. Others were wide and large, a few he’d recognized as cigar and cigarette burns. He turned around before Ricky could inspect them further. 

The elite felt his stomach drop to the floor, his chest clenching in a way he’d never experienced before. He had to bite his lip to stifle the flurry of questions that swarmed his mind. 

“If I wasn’t so flattered by your staring I would find it quite annoying, Goldsworth,” the proletariat taunted, a smug look on his face. 

Goldsworth rolled his eyes. “Don’t throw my words back at me.” 

“I thought they were very appropriate, didn’t you?” The lawman wandered over to where Ricky was standing, wrapping his arms around his counterpart’s shoulders and pressing his chest into Ricky’s back. He began to press kisses into the gilded man’s neck. 

“I think you should get your spindly ass out of my room and pack your damn suitcase already,” the heir threw over his shoulder, maybe tilting his head to give the detective better access to his neck; he won’t confirm nor deny. 

“You’re so sexy when you try to insult me, kitten,” Tinsley purred into the gilded man’s ear. 

“Well that certainly explains a lot, cabrón.”

“Oh, yeah, baby, keep going,” the older man moaned, making Ricky roll his eyes once again. 

“Get the fuck out of here before I carry you out,” he threatened, a smile in his words. 

“Promise?” 

Ricky took the shirt in his hand and used it to whack the detective in the nose. It wasn’t a hard hit, but it was enough to make Tinsley stumble back a few steps. He let out a few grunts of surprise and covered his face dramatically. 

“Don’t make me say it again, Long Legs!” 

“Fine, fine! This is me… leaving!” The blue collar made a show of leaving the room, making sure Goldsworth saw.

He felt the fond smile on his face, but that doesn't mean Ricky was proud of it.

+++

“Oh, my _God_ ,” the elite moaned into his hand. It barely stifled the noise. His other hand was gripping the angled back of the leather couch so hard his knuckles blanched of all color.

He watched as the detective slid his mouth off the dick with an obscene pop, a look of disapproval on his face. “Keep your voice down, goddamn it. Do you want the pilot to hear us??” 

Ricky was trying to catch his breath in shaky and quick bursts. “He’s used to it, babe.” 

Tinsley rolled his eyes. “You’re an absolute jackass.” 

“Et tu, sweetheart.” A hiss escaped the gilded man’s lips as the sleuth’s hand firmly jerked up and down on the cock he was holding. Goldsworth sank his teeth into his fist to stifle his whimper, heeding the reprimand from Tinsley anyway. 

The bastard was doing it on purpose, being _excruciatingly_ good at the blow/hand job. Yes, he normally was good, but this was just pure torture- which, as previously shown, Ricky derives pleasure from- and for what? Because Goldsworth couldn’t lose. 

To make a long and petty argument short and to the point: the heir couldn’t touch the detective. It started out with Ricky teasing Tinsley; he was bored and it was a long flight, so he decided to entertain himself by dirty-talking the lawman. It quickly delved into them fighting over who was better at oral- which was _clearly_ Ricky- and Tinsley made the wager that he could make Goldsworth cum without the gilded man touching him. 

It was quickly becoming apparent that the elite would, in fact, lose that bet. With each swirl of tongue, twist of fingers, and vibrations from the older man’s moans, Goldsworth was inching closer and closer to his breaking point. The proletariat was working at a pace that was fast enough to be stimulating and close enough to perfection, but slow enough to be excruciating and not enough. 

It was taking every single drop of restraint he had not to grab ahold of that messy mass of silky locks and _take_ which, considering Ricky’s track record, was impressive in and of itself. It was a battle between his greed and his stubbornness, the two strongest forces that took residence in the heir’s brain. 

“Maldita sea, más papá,” the younger man breathed, his resolve crumbling faster and faster. 

Just when it seemed like the euphoria was bearable enough for the elite not to fold, the smug rat bastard added a fourth finger to Ricky’s asshole. 

“¡Dios mío! ¡No es justo!” 

Each thrust of Tinsley fingers worked in tandem with his mouth as he worked it up and down, swallowing the heir whole. It still didn’t get the result the sleuth desired, but that didn’t seem to deter him. Rather, it caused him to up his method. 

“It’s such a shame we have to be in public soon, because I would love to just slice you open, kitten.” The sultry tone Tinsley used should’ve been illegal; against the rules at the very least. 

“I’d take that dagger I know you have on you and I’d just cut you open. Watch you bleed, kitten. You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” There was a supercilious tilt to the detective’s head that was far too effective. Those long fingers managed to graze his counterpart’s prostate, a yelp of pleasure ripping from the gilded man’s throat. 

“Hmm, this isn’t working. Vielleicht wäre es dir lieber, ich würde es so sagen?” Ricky had absolutely no idea what was being said to him, but whatever it was was _very_ effective. At this point, both his hands were gripping onto the back of the couch so they wouldn’t betray him and grab onto the proletariat. 

“Ich würde dein hübsches Blut benutzen, um deine Haut zu malen, dann würde ich jeden Tropfen von dir lecken, Kätzchen,” Tinsley growled in a low, predatory tone that sent chills down the gilded man’s skin. _He was so close…_

“And it’d taste like the pig’s blood that you have in your veins.” 

Dear _God!_ “ _¡Joder!_ ” 

Ricky lost. But _oh_ did defeat feel euphoric. His hands flew into the curly mass of hair and gripped it so tightly, pulling the detective’s mouth back onto his dick. Goldsworth could feel every inch of his skin buzz with the pleasure, his nerves so overloaded with the sensation that it made his brain lose signal for a few moments. The only thing he knew in that moment was the thrill he’d just delved in. 

His chest heaved in an effort to replace the oxygen in his blood, the sweat on the heir’s skin slowly drying. He didn’t dare open his eyes yet, not yet ready to sour the bliss with the smug smile he knew was sitting on Tinsley’s stupidly handsome face. 

It took a few seconds, but the white collar did eventually open his eyes. He was right. The pompous grin was the first thing he saw. 

“I told you I’d win,” Tinsley gloated, his long fingers whipping the cum that was dribbling down his chin. Goldsworth saw the idea pop into the detective’s mind the second he got it, those hazel eyes locking onto his own. Without breaking eye contact, the sleuth slipped his fingers into his mouth. 

“Jesus Christ, sir. You’ve already won, what more do you _want_ from me?” His head thumped against the back of the couch. The elite was still breathing heavily. 

“Mmm, _vindication_ ,” the lawman moaned, getting up from his knees to look at his appearance in the mirror wall; fix his hair and such. 

“You cheated, you scoundrel,” Ricky accused. He was lazily watching the taller man struggle with the tangled mess he’d caused, amusement pulling the corner of his mouth up. 

“And exactly how did I do that?” The proletariat was only half paying attention. 

“You spoke German on me, that’s _cheating_.”

“But you desperately moaning in Spanish is fair game?” He’d made eye contact with the gilded man in the mirror, an eyebrow raised condescendingly. 

The heir opened his mouth and then closed it, gaping like a trout. He had no defense for that. 

“Hmm, I think you’re just making up excuses,” Tinsley hummed, turning to face his counterpart. “You just can’t accept that you lost.” 

“Tch, yeah right, Tin Man,” Ricky responded wittily. Once he caught his breath, the elite also fixed himself to be presentable. Tinsley had fixed his hair so it was back in the state it started in. 

Goldsworth made his way over to the spot the sleuth was standing, grabbing one of the many glass decanters sitting on the shelves and pouring himself a drink. 

“Ricky, it’s one o’clock.” 

The heir swallowed his sip of bourbon and leaned against the counter. “Are we stating the obvious now? You look like a drowned rat that needs to brush his teeth.” 

“You always drink this early?” The detective pointedly ignored the artful jab at him. 

The question made the gilded man straighten up, his defensiveness prickling. “Why do you care??” 

The proletariat closed his eyes and sighed, his patience being tested. “It was a simple question.” 

“So was mine.” 

“Jesus _Christ_ , do you have to take everything I say as an attack?” 

Ricky was cut off before he could even respond. 

“Good afternoon, this is your pilot speaking. We will be due to land in about fifteen minutes. I recommend that you take your seats at this time and fasten your seatbelts.” 

At the announcement, Tinsley pushed passed the heir and into the seating area, the emerald green velvet curtain swishing closed in finality. He was clearly pissed at Goldsworth for something or other. Whatever, that was the detective’s problem.

+++

The Louisiana afternoon sun was blindingly bright, burning the unsuspecting and unprepared eyes of the two men stepping off the plane. They both held up their hands to act as a shield, pinching their eyes nearly closed to fend off a possible headache. They each held a large luggage bag, the pilot carrying two bags that belonged to the elite. There was a cherry red Rolls-Royce parked right by the landing zone, a man with the same uniform as the Mayor standing in front of it with his hands behind his back.

“Good afternoon, gentleman! Welcome to New Orleans!” The man stepped to the side and gestured with his hand towards the car. Ricky just pushed right past him without a word. Tinsley glared at his counterpart. 

“Thank you, sir,” the lawman chirped with a smile to the man. Goldsworth rolled his eyes and threw his luggage into the backseat of the car. He and Tinsley grabbed at the driver’s side door handle at the same time. 

“What makes you think _you’re_ driving, ¿cabrón?” 

“Well, let’s see… When was the last time you were in New Orleans?” 

Goldsworth went to respond and then stopped short. He had to begrudgingly admit the proletariat had a point. With more force than was necessary, the criminal removed his hand from under the detective’s, adding a glare for good measure. He made his way over to the passenger door and threw it open, sliding into the creme leather seat and slammed the door. 

“Such a child,” the lawman grumbled under his breath. The heir pointedly ignored the insult in favor of brooding in his own childish indignance. The car purred to life in a growl of power, vibrating the bones of the men inside. 

“Excuse me, sir, but may I inquire as to what street I’ll be let out onto?” The charming smile was hard to miss on the detective’s charming stupid face. 

The servant’s face turned a slight rosy color, easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. Goldsworth rolled his eyes; as much as he’d hated to admit it, Tinsley was good at charming people.

“Why, yes of course, sir! It will take you onto Oak street,” the man informed. The soft smile he was giving the detective made a twinge of something dark rise in the elite’s chest. “Do-do you need directions, sir? I’d be more than happy to help.” 

The lawman returned the smile and slid on his sunglasses. “No, thank you. But I greatly appreciate your help, Mister…”

“Song, Beverly Song, sir.” Beverly Song had not even the slightest inclination as to the murderous glare the murderer was throwing at him. And to his defense, neither did Goldsworth. 

“Well, Mr. Beverly Song, I thank you for your help, once again. Hope to see you around,” the sleuth flirted, pulling away with a dazzling smile and a simple wave. As soon as he was out of eyesight his smile dropped. 

“What the hell was that?” Ricky adjusted his hat to fit more snugly on his head as a preemptive measure against the wind. 

“I know it's a foreign concept to you, but that was called ‘having manners’,” the sleuth told in a _very_ supercilious tone. It made the elite’s hackles rise. 

“Fuck you, I have manners!” 

Tinsley shot him a placating look. Lord above was he really getting on the white collar’s nerves. 

For the rest of the car ride, the two stayed silent. Neither of them had anything to say to one another and they were both perfectly content with that. Goldsworth spent his time watching the city fly past in a wondrous blur. At the speed the proletariat was driving, the humid air was too slow to touch them, the wind feeling dry but warm. Colorful buildings smeared together in a palate of artful wonder. The sounds of the city were as rushed and chaotic as the people causing the noise. When they finally pulled to a stop in front of a glistening white building, Ricky isn’t ashamed to admit the city had managed to inject his veins with a sense of whimsy and excitement. 

“Where are we?” As he left the car, the gilded man buttoned his off-white blazer closed and pulled his hat down further to shield the sun. 

Tinsley mirrored that action, gesturing with his head towards the front of the white brick. “Don’t tell me you don;t know how to read, now, kitten.” 

Agitated, the younger man whipped his head in the direction previously indicated. His face warmed as he read the words printed on the building, and it couldn’t be blamed on the heat. It was a police station. “Cállate, cabrón.” 

“You’d love that,” the detective taunted, a petty smile curling his lips. Long Legs strode right up the steps and paused at the doors, turning to make sure the heir was following. “Coming, sweetheart?” 

How the roles reversed when Ricky Goldsworth was out of his element. The mobster followed the same path as Tinsley and had the door opened for him like he was a damsel. Insulting, is what it was. 

The station was as bustling as the city it watched over: officers hurrying past in different ways, telephones screeching in a cacophony of irritation and demand, a amanagery of criminals handcuffed to chairs awaiting to be questioned and carted to holding cells, weeping and frantic citizens conversing with uniforms, and a lone frazzled woman behind a receptionist desk. 

When they walked up to her, Goldsworth was able to get a better look. She had to be in her late fifties, age spots and lines streaking her sickly skin. Her hair was more grey than black, wispies escaping from her bun that looked like wire. She had an unlit cigarette hanging from her mouth, flicking up and down as she spoke on the phone in a gravely and raspy voice. The orange dimestore dress she wore was ill-fitting, the high collar that was supposed to be snug against her skin was limply hanging against her collar bone. The heir’s judgement of her appeared as a grimace on his face. The proletariat noticed this and elbowed him in the ribs. 

“What was that for??” he roared as he rubbed the spot he’d just been jabed. 

“Stop judging people for their appearance, Goldsworth. Some people don’t have the privilege of their Daddy’s money,” Tinsley reprimanded in a firm tone. For a man who’s never sired children, he sure had the traits of a father. Not that Ricky would really know. 

The gilded man’s scowl deepened, but he didn’t shoot a retort back. He didn’t want to stoop to such levels. 

“Can I help you gentleman?” The receptionist asked, her cigarette now lit. Her yellowed eyes trained on Goldsworth, as if she could _sense_ that he was the son and heir to the largest bootlegging family on the west coast; it unsettled him, to say the least.

The heir watched as Tinsley turned on his charm: leaning an elbow on the desk to be just that bit closer to the woman, a shy but dazzling smile on his lips that made his eyes seem kinder. “Ah, yes. You see, ma’am, I’m here looking for an old friend of mine. A Detective Percival Gage? I’d be so grateful if you could point me in his direction.” He’d lowered his tone to one that Ricky only heard from him in the sheets. Needless to say it caught the attention of both the receptionist and the gilded man. 

The woman’s grasp on the phone loosened and it nearly slipped out of her hand, an almost starstruck look on her face. She cleared her throat and pulled the cigarette from her lips. “O-Oh! Absolutely! Detective Gage’s office is just down that hallway, I can walk you there!” She sprang up from her chair like a grasshopper, never taking her eyes off the detective. 

As she turned around and led them down the corridor, the white collar shook his head at his counterpart. “You just did it again, Legs. And don’t you try to say that was ‘manners’ because I know seduction when I see it.” 

“I have no idea what you’re referring to, Goldsworth,” Tinsley retorted, a look of feigned innocence on his face as he followed the receptionist down the hallway. 

“You are _insufferable_ , you understand that?” 

“What was that you said on the plane?” He tapped his chin pensively. The heir clenched his jaw in agitation; he knew what Tinsley was going to say. “Ah, yes. ‘ _Et tu, sweetheart_ ’.” The blue collar ended his statement with a wink that only made the elite roll his eyes. 

“Here it is, Detective Gage’s office,” the woman announced, mainly addressing the detective with a swooning look on her face. 

“Oh, thank you so very much, ma’am! I definitely wouldn’t have been able to find it without your help,” the older man cooed, a hand placed over his chest in a gracious gesture. 

“Oh please, call me Ophelia. And it really was nothing,” the receptionist bashfully sang. _God, I wanna puke._

“Ophelia, thank you,” Tinsley reiterated while also sparing her a very effective wink. 

The woman’s blush was a deep pink as she returned to her desk. At least Ricky could find solace in the fact that the sleuth had that effect on not just him. 

Finally, the blue collar rapped on the dark stained door; a deep and muffled “what” quickly followed. Tinsley spared Goldsworth one last glance before he turned the worn brass handle and pushed the door open. 

As soon as it was opened, a wall of smoke poured out of the tiny and poorly lit office. The blinds were opened just enough that slats of yellowed sunlight shone through in slim rectangles on the gray smoke. A man in what seemed to be his mid fifties was stooped over a myriad of papers and files that were scattered across a standard desk, head in his hand with a cigar tucked between his teeth. A desk lamp with a green shade was dimly illuminating the mess, multiple mugs basking in its light directly underneath. A few dark green filing cabinets stood sentry to the man’s left, chipped and beaten.

When the man looked up from his papers, his face lit up; though a hint of regret could be picked out on his features as well. His warm dark blue eyes crinkled up with more wrinkles as he smiled, a comradery quickly befalling the air that made the heir feel even _more_ out of place. 

“Heya, Percy,” the proletariat sang, a playful smirk lightening his features. 

“Colton! Son of a bitch, come over here!” Percy got up from behind his desk to make his way over to Tinsley, his arms open to envelope the lanky bastard. They engaged in a firm hug and Ricky was able to really look at Percy now. He was slightly shorter than his counterpart, a strong build but with a beer gut, and fierce ginger hair burning the top of his head. 

When the embrace ended, Percy held the Tin Man by the shoulders at arm’s length. “Colton Cooper Tinsley, it’s been a long damn time, son.” The man had a warm quality to his voice, friendly and inviting. He seemed like the stereotypical grandfather but with a lot less years on him. 

“Indeed it has, Percival,” Tinsley agreed, a sad quality to his smile now. It… It hurt Goldsworth to see him like that. 

“And who is this strapping lad you’ve got accompanying you, huh?” 

As if he remembered suddenly that he wasn’t alone, the detective glanced at his counterpart and introduced him. “Oh, Percy, this is my client who’s father I asked you to look up: Ricky Goldsworth.” 

The mention of his name caused Detective Gage’s eyebrow to shoot up; he’d recognized the name, everyone did. “Goldsworth, eh?” The jovial tone he’d had was completely gone as he spoke, a judging and speculative look in his eyes. 

“Yes, Detective Gage, _that_ Goldsworth,” Ricky added before the man could ask. The heir knew that Percival couldn’t arrest him or charge him for anything because his family went to great lengths to make their shady business merely rumor, but that didn’t stop the chill he’d gotten when that skeptical and evaluating look landed on him. 

“You’re involved with the _Goldsworths_ , Tinsley??” Detective Gage hissed at his friend, disgust very prominent in his tone. And dear Jesus did Ricky want to proclaim that he and Tin Man were involved in more ways than one just to see the old man’s reaction. 

As if he read his mind, the lawman spoke before the gilded man could even open his mouth. “Yes, I am. I know what that means, too.” He’d held out a plaicating hand towards his old friend like you would with a startled animal. 

“Frankly, Colton, I don’t think you do,” Percival whispered, but it wasn’t low enough; Goldsworth heard every word and he hated being talked about like he wasn’t standing three feet away. 

“Dear _Lord_ , between you and Jeneane I feel like a damn child. I’m _fine_ Percy; I’m thirty-three, not thirteen. I can handle myself and make my own decisions,” Tinsley emphasized. He looked as tired as he sounded. 

This seemingly worked as Detective Gage backed down. He didn’t bring it up again the entirety of conversation. “If that’s what you believe…” 

“Glad to know my reputation precedes me across the Mississippi. Now I simply must know what they say about me here,” the elite purred, catching the attention of both the detectives. He’d unknowingly slipped into the role he was raised to play: the supercilious, diplomatic heir that maintained an air around him that toed the line of “I could seduce you with just a few words and you’re powerless to stop me” and “I can end your existence on this mortal coil within a moment and you’re powerless to stop me”. 

The gilded man pointedly ignored the annoyed groan that his counterpart made and focused on the other detective in the room. Those sapphire eyes still held that hard judgement in them but it was now mixed with mild confusion. 

“For fuck’s sake Ricky, stop. Fucking no,” Tinsley protested with a reprimanding finger pointed towards the bootlegger. 

“You sure you wanna hear what us coppers say about you and your family, Goldsworth?” Gage challenged. 

“Why, of course I do. My mother taught me that everyone’s opinion has the right to be heard, including officers of the law,” the criminal passive aggressively delegated. He made sure to throw a charming smile on as well, acting like the bigger person just to piss off the two men in the room. 

“The Goldsworth family is nothing but a pack of criminals who make their money off illegal booze shipped in from Canada and bought half the lawmakers in California alone and the police in your gilded pockets. And that’s not even mentioning the loan sharking that you rats dip your filthy fingers in too.” 

The both of them ignored Long Legs’ complaints as they engaged in a tense face off, Ricky still smiling and Gage with a sneer. 

“Very interesting. Very interesting _indeed_ , but I can’t help but notice you failed to enlighten me on rumors about me,” Ricky dangerously prompted, very close to losing his composure completely and using his influence to get Percy Boy stripped of his American citizenship. 

“No, don’t you dare! Percy, I’m begging you, he doesn’t need a bigger ego,” the lanky bastard pleaded. It fell on deaf ears. 

“Oh don’t worry, kid. I was getting there. Rumor says that you’ve got the worst temper of the whole bloodline and that you’re not too keen on continuing on the family line. It’s also circulated that you’re the most deadly Goldsworth as well, your body count being somewhere in the low hundreds. The ‘Rumplestiltskin Killer’ of California because you stuff gold chains down the throats of your victims.” 

With each admission, the heir grew more and more giddy. It was exhilarating hearing everything he was getting away with and finding out just what people didn’t know yet. 

“And that doesn’t scare you, Detective Gage?” _**ARE YOU FUCKING SCARED OF ME YET, PIG?!**_

“They’re only rumors, right?” Seemed Percy Boy had more guts than Goldsworth gave him credit for. 

“Right. Simply rumors,” Ricky confirmed, the giddiness making him want to burst out in a fit of manic laughter. 

The mobster and the older detective maintained their stare down, the tension getting thicker with each passing second. Just when the gilded man was about to clock Percival ‘round the head with his own desk lamp, the proletariat grabbed hold of him by the elbows and yanked him back.

“It was great seeing you again Percy, but we’ve gotta find a hotel room before it gets too late.”

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, dickhead?!” The gilded man struggled against the hold, but the more he did so the tighter his counterpart’s hold became. 

“Stopping you before you get fucking arrested for assaulting an officer, dumb ass!” Tinsley hissed into Goldsworth’s ear. 

Detective Gage carefully analyzed the interaction and how easily each man pressed against the other. You’d have to be an absolute imbecile to not piece together that they were intimate, and Percival was far from being one. 

The sleuth must’ve noticed that the older detective made the connection as soon as Ricky did because he flew off of his counterpart like Goldsworth’s skin was molten. 

“Yes, of course. Don’t want all the rooms filled up before you each could get your own.” The way Detective Gage spoke was calculated, full of implications. It rubbed the heir the wrong way in all the wrong spots. 

Tinsley’s laugh was weak and riddled with nerves. “Exactly, we wouldn’t want to sleep together at all. C’mon, Ricky.” 

The disgusted look in those sapphire eyes intensified as it locked onto the white collar. He returned an equally disdainful look as he placed his hat on, one that promised harm should the man spread slander against the two. 

_Fuck, I hope it works._

+++

As he drove, Tinsley gripped the steering wheel so hard it was a miracle the thing didn’t shatter. Though the sunglasses obscured them, Goldsworth knew the man’s eyes were as wide as dinner plates.

“Fuck, Percy knows!” The detective was gnawing on his lip like it was a bone and he was a starved wolf. 

“He can’t know for-”

“You saw the way he looked at us and you damn well heard what he said!! He’s not a fool, Ricky!” His driving was as erratic as his mind. 

“Tinsley, listen to me, it’s gonna be fine. He can’t prove anything,” the heir soothed, twisting in his seat to face his counterpart. If he weren’t freaking out so much, Ricky would’ve placed a hand on the lawman’s knee to calm him down, but he figured that’d have the complete opposite effect in that moment.

“R-Right, no evidence,” he muttered, fingers drumming on the wheel. 

“Besides, I’ll make damn sure he doesn’t talk,” the murderer implied. This got the blue collar’s attention. 

“Ricky, no! Percy is a good guy!” 

“He’s a _cop_.” 

“No, Goldsworth! I won’t let you hurt him!” At least some of the anxiety was gone from his tone. 

“It’s honestly cute how you think you can tell me what to do, cabrón,” the younger man laughed. 

The condescending chuckle the detective emitted made the heir’s smirk fall. “Bold choice of words there, kitten.” And now his blood ran ice cold.

+++

Just as the sun was setting, Tinsley pulled to a stop in front of an elegant old building. Flags from all over the globe lazily hanging from the front of the building that added color to the otherwise monotone structure. He continued into the parking garage, passing a sign that read “valet parking”. The place was filled with shining opulent cars, ranging from navy blue Coupes to canary yellow Rolls-Royces.

“Why the hell didn’t you accept the valet parking?” the elite whined, truly exposing his laziness. 

“Because you need the walking,” the detective responded, not missing a beat. He carried one of the elite’s suitcases so they didn’t have to make two trips. 

“Are you implying that I’m fat??” 

“No, I’m merely saying that you need to be careful or your waist will be as big as your head.” 

For a moment, the only thing that could be heard was the pair’s footsteps echoing off the cement complex and the noise of the New Orleans nightlife slowly beginning to wake with the slipping of the sun behind the horizon. 

“How dare-!” 

“Just shut up and get to the damn door,” the older man growled, rolling his eyes and picking up his pace to pass his counterpart. 

When they made it to the lobby, Goldsworth noted that the decor was very antebellum style, colonial with modern twist. It was fairly empty save for the receptionist and a woman sat at the window reading the paper. The brunette took the lead and strode right up to the check in desk, not bothering to check if the elite was following him. 

“Evenin’ sir, welcome to the Dauphine Orleans Hotel! How can I help you?” The young man that had to be in his late teens asked. He still had that spark of hope in his eyes that was killed after the weight of adulthood hit. 

“We’d like a room, if that’d be possible, please,” Tinsley asked, a tame level of his charm™ sprinkled into the words. 

Ricky dramatically dropped his suitcases on the floor and theatrically leaned onto the granite with a sigh like he was a Victorian maiden that was just given life altering news. His effort to get the proletariat’s attention was rewarded with an irritated look shot in his direction. 

“Ah, well. I’ll see what I can do about that. There’s a wedding party being held here and the majority of the rooms are taken…” the kid explained while flipping through a large binder. “Ah! Here we go! Carriage House room 101 is still available.” 

Tinsley went to speak, but Goldsworth beat him to the punch. “Perfect! And what’s the rate per night?” When the lawman threw Ricky an annoyed look he simply grinned in return. 

“Uh, that’ll be $25 a night,” the kid informed. Watching all the color drain from the blue collar’s face and his eyes widening at the price was the _best_ entertainment the elite ever had the pleasure of witnessing.

“Alright, and here’s the thing, darling. We don’t know how many nights we’ll be staying,” the heir explained while rummaging through his blazer pockets. “Will this cover it? If we exceed our advance I can cover that as well.” The mobster slapped ten $10 bills onto the counter, reveling in the receptionist’s face taking on the same quality as the detective’s. 

Taking the money, the teenager slowly counted each bill, his face becoming more and more pale as the number reached $1,000. “Y-Yes this will cer-certainly cover it, s-sir.” He cleared his throat and picked up a pen. “Name, please?” 

“Ricky Goldsworth.” 

He couldn’t help the smirk on his face as the receptionist nervously gulped at his name, quickly jotting the name down. When the boy was done, he handed over the room key with shaking hands. “Uh, j-just a warning, the hotel is claimed to be haunted.” 

At this, the heir broke out in a chortle. “Haunted by poor interior design.” Ricky tuned on his heel and made his way to the room, picking up his bags and not waiting for Tinsley. 

“Hey, maybe staying here isn’t such a good idea,” the sleuth said once he’d caught up. 

“Aww, is the poor little Tin Man afraid of the ghosties?” 

Offense curtled the detective’s face at the taunting tone Goldsworth had used. “I’m not afraid-” 

“Good, because ghosts don’t exist. It’s a marketing tool and nothing more.” They continued through an open foyer that was surrounded by hotel doors, the trees and foliage marking the center of the area.

“Not even remotely open minded, are we?” 

Ricky stopped in front of their room, setting down his bags to open the white door. “I am, I’ve just never seen one.” He pushed the door, keeping it open with his foot while he grabbed his luggage. 

The room was pleasant, exposed brick walls with a white couch pushed against it. A wooden table stood in front of the couch with promotional pamphlets scattered atop it, a single lamp glowing the corner farthest from the door. To the left of that was the bathroom, a spacious black tiled room with a large claw-footed tub and shower. 

“It’ll do,” Goldsworth determined while casting his bags towards the couch. A deep sigh originated from Tinsley at the comment, his limits being breached. “I want the bed closest to the bathroom.”

As the younger man continued through the sitting area and through an archway, he hooked around the wall that obscured the sleeping area. This area also had exposed brick walls along with light wooden ceilings and rafters. The far wall had a set or arch-backed red and gold chairs that were separated by a small side table, a lamp positioned on the side of each chair. Opposite those was a king bed with a headboard that mimicked the style of the chairs. Plain white sheets were illuminated by the setting sun through the window to the left of the bed. 

In conclusion: there was only one bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tinsley: If ghosts aren't real then why am I so haunted by my past??
> 
> I can't believe I've never done this before, but HUGE shoutout and thank you to Erin for helping me edit! She's been helping me since chapter three and I can't thank her enough! Thank you, Old Sport!! <3


	8. Moondance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw // blood and panic attacks
> 
> Heed the tags, my friends.
> 
> This is your captain speaking to notify you of some incoming turbulence. Strap yourselves in, folks, it's gonna be a bumpy ride.

Ten days. Ten long, excruciating days since they landed in the Big Easy and there was _nothing_. No leads, no information, not even a _mention_ of either Herne Kennedy or Henry Koizumi anywhere. Needless to say, both men were irritated (one more than the other). 

Exhausted and frustrated, the pair shuffled languidly into their shared hotel room after an extensive day of going to as many restaurants, jazz clubs, and (legal) public entertainment spots as they could. Asking every living soul they could if they _knew a man that goes by the name of Herne Kennedy? He looks just like this man right here but older_ and it amounted to absolutely nothing; just like every other day they spent in this city. 

Tinsley watched as his counterpart dramatically threw himself onto the couch face up and with the back of his hand pressed into his forehead, golden rings glittering in the artificial light. A very theatrical sigh punched out of him as the gilded man’s back collided with the cushions. “It’s hopeless!” 

It truly was. At this point, the detective wasn’t even sure the guy was still in this city, let alone alive. This thought occurred to him three days ago, but he didn’t dare bring it up lest he unleash upon himself the wrath of Ricky Goldsworth. Until now, that is. “Ricky, he might even be in New Orleans anymore, let alone alive if he’s as dangerous as you’ve said.” 

“Oh, don’t give me that look.” The older man walked over to the couch and lifted up his counterpart’s legs to sit down, resting them on his lap once he was situated. The glare Goldsworth was shooting him had nothing to do with his legs. While Tinsley was never intimidated by Ricky or his murderous stares, he now only found them laughable and mostly irritating; they were honestly comparable to Jeneane when she’s grumpy. 

“He’s here,” the heir spoke with finality, resting his head back onto the arm rest. The sleuth didn’t believe that, but he let it go to avoid pointless argument. 

The thing about them being together in Louisiana was just that, they were _always_ together. It was such a bizarre and jarring feeling when the detective realized that he no longer felt annoyed by the elite’s presence. The side of Ricky that the man was instilled to repress wormed its way to the surface a lot more over the course of their time spent together, especially when he called home. It was no secret the heir missed his family back in California as he was unafraid to announce when he felt a spell of longing. 

Just like the lawman, Ricky would call his loved ones every night to inform them about the day’s expedition. It wasn’t uncommon for Lucy to speak with Tinsley to ask about her son, if he was staying out of trouble and taking care of himself. Frank would also jump on the line as well to gossip and hear how the pair were doing. It was quite sweet. 

Lucy was getting progressively sicker. Tinsley wasn’t sure Ms. Goldsworth would last the year. This was something Ricky noticed, but it seemed he didn’t want to face losing his mother quite yet; the sleuth couldn’t blame him. He was devastated after he lost his. 

The nightly calls to his niece were always a pleasant break from playing detective. In a strange twist of fate, Ricky and Jeneane would often talk with each other. It was actually quite surprising how well those two got along, the main conversation topic being lightheartedly insulting one another and, concerningly, how to get away with breaking the law. 

It was during one of these conference calls with Jeneane that Tinsley learned that the Goldsworths had made their fortune from the gold rush. 

_“Wait, what? The _gold rush?_ ” _

_“Yes, cabrón. My great grandfather Hezekiah Goldáraz moved from Mexico in 1848. He was actually the one to originally find the gold there,” Ricky flippantly informed._

_The look the detective had on his face was that of pure disbelief. “I thought your family got their money from the bootlegging you do.”_

_“Nope! Completely legitimate!”_

_“Oh, how the mighty fall,” the sleuth murmured. He was shot a dirty look by the elite._

_“Hey! Cut it out! Insulting Ricky is my job!” Jeneane yelled._

_Tinsley rolled his eyes and held his head in his hands. “What is going on with you two??”_

_The evil cackling that he could hear come from both of them made his heart leap, he wasn’t entirely sure the fondness he felt didn’t also include Goldsworth._

He was brought back to the present by his counterpart’s voice: 

“Hey, what day is it?” 

Quite sluggishly, the brunette lifted his arm up off the back of the sofa to look at his watch. He had to blink a few times to clear up the bleariness he was experiencing, even bringing the clock closer to his eyes. When his brain finally caught up, he did a double-take. 

Goldsworth noticed the astonished reaction the lawman had. “What? What is it?”

With a quick glance to the heir, Tinsley cautiously lowered his arm to rest on Ricky’s shins. “It’s-uh, it’s July 15th.” _That can’t be right._

“And what about July 15th is making you look like you’re contemplating the meaning of life and your existence?” 

The older man swallowed nervously and weighed whether or not he wanted to tell the gilded man, he had no idea how he would react. _Ah, fuck it._

“....I just remembered that today’s my birthday.” 

There was silence for a few moments. The detective looked over at his counterpart to make sure he was still breathing, this was the longest he’d ever gone without speaking, ever. He had a shocked look in his eyes that made them as wide as dinner plates.

Abruptly, the elite sprang into motion to get off the white cushions, resulting in him tumbling to the floor as his foot caught on the lawman’s arm. “ _Motherfucker!_ ” 

“Jesus Christ, are you ok??” Tinsley leaned over to gaze upon the chaotic mess that was his partner, the man in question cackling whilst cradling the elbow that had taken the brunt of his impact. 

“Yeah… I’m fine,” he laughed at his own stupidity. Tinsley won’t lie, he liked Goldsworth’s laugh; it was boisterous and larger than life, much like he was. 

“Then mind explaining to me what the fuck caused you to convulse like you were being excorsized??” At this point, the proletariat had joined in on Ricky’s giggling now that he knew the man was ok. 

Placing a hand on his chest, the elite exhaled a steadying breath to absolve his chortling. “I’ve gotta make some calls, make yourself scarce.” 

“I swear to God, if this has anything to do with my birthday-” 

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” 

_Well, alright then._ Guess Goldsworth hadn’t changed as much as the detective thought. He was stunned into silence at the blatant rudeness, and it wasn’t in that usual style of flirty verbal abuse he usually takes on, either. 

“Go for a walk or something, babe. I’ve got grown-up business to take care of,” the mobster announced, dusting himself off after finally standing up. The patronizing smile on Ricky’s face and the way he patted the detective’s cheek is what made Tinsley leave, grabbing his hat and forcefully slamming the door behind him. 

_Fucking prick._

+++

Tinsley was livid, fuming as he stomped down the glittering, humid streets of New Orleans. He didn’t acknowledge the strange and concerned stares he was receiving, but he registered them. 

He wasn’t sure who he was more resentful of: Ricky for his overt impertinence and flippant callousness, or himself for allowing himself to indulge in even the slightest possibility that that man was maybe a good person and would ever give a damn about him. 

“God _damn_ it, Colton. You fucking _know_ better than this!” he growled under his breath, sounding rather like that bastard Clyde Tinsley. 

He was a fool. A proper, godforsaken imbecile. The man knew better than to trust anyone like that. Hell, he never should’ve let himself rollick in the notion that anyone would care about him in the first fucking place. God, he was a pathetic excuse of a man. 

It was absolutely foolish to allow Goldsworth to even get as close to him as he had. It was deadly to get any closer and the detective wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he knew that someone else had died because of him, even if it was Ricky Goldsworth. 

Jesus, he hated being back in New Orleans. There were so many terrible memories tied to that southern city. The enchanting splendor that wafted off the entrenching secretive nature of the city became haunted for him the instant his sister and brother-in-law’s blood came to decorate his nightmares. 

He never should’ve come back, he never should’ve broken his own vow. But, if he could stomach living in Chicago for the majority of his life, he could force himself to spend a few days in this blood-soaked borough. 

Tinsley felt ridiculous for thinking that Ricky wasn’t the immoral selfish bastard that he outwardly projected to be. For fuck’s sake, he was _Ricky Goldsworth!_ That was his _name!_ The crowned prince to the largest criminal empire the United States of America had to offer. He was, at best, a petulant and arrogant child and, at worst, a viciously insane murderer with an insatiable bloodlust. 

The detective had finally stopped wandering, coming to a stop at the edge of Lake Pontchartrain where a boardwalk had been constructed. It hadn’t been there last time he was in this city, but a lot can change in eight years. He took a deep breath and rested his arms on the railing, allowing himself to be captivated by the lights of the city dancing on the surface of the rippling murky water. 

_Thirty-four._

God, he was tired. He was so fucking _exhausted_ from all the trauma he has and all the horrors he’s bared witness to. Tinsley felt stretched to his breaking point, yet he kept piling on more. If misery loves company, then why did he feel so alone all the damn time? He wanted to snap so goddamn bad, to just finally allow himself to examine thirty-four years of abuse and turmoil and alleviate the pressure enough to feel like he could breathe again, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t how Father Tinsley raised him. 

Instead of screaming until his lungs turned bloody like he so desperately wanted to do, the man just stood by the lakeside. He breathed in the cool moisture logged air, each breath releasing the overwhelming feeling that built up and watched the black water lap at the shore. 

Tinsley never liked celebrating his birthday. But it wasn’t why he was upset with Goldsworth. He was upset because it was the blatant dismissal of Tinsley in general. He’d begun to believe that maybe - just maybe - the gilded man had begun to like the detective. Once again, despite popular belief, he wasn’t an idiot. He noticed the lingering stares from him while Ricky thought he wasn’t looking, the close proximity at all times even though the situation didn’t call for it, even the kisses had become a little less vicious. Guess he was over analyzing as usual. 

Not like he wanted Goldilocks to be sweet on him or anything. _Absolutely_ not. That would be absolutely horrific to have a psychotic man like Goldsworth to have romantic feelings for him; believe him. But it _is_ nice to know that someone could actually tolerate him enough to feel that way towards him - the part he projected, anyway. Whatever, it wasn’t like Tinsley tolerated Ricky much, either. 

After standing on the boardwalk for what felt like an hour, the lawman decided to head back to the hotel room. Even if that rich son of a bitch was still doing “grown-up business”, he’d just have to carry on with him in the room.

+++

Right as he was going to knock on the door for Goldsworth to let him back in, the gilded man pulled it open. He had a worried look in his eye that instantly deflated into relief as he spotted Tinsley. 

“Oh, fucking thank God,” he sighed, tucking a stray piece of hair out of his face. The white collar stepped aside so that the sleuth could enter the room. He slammed the door behind the older man as soon as he entered the threshold. “Where the hell were you??” 

In reaction to that question, Tinsley braced his hands on the wall with his hat in his hand, effectively crushing it. The man had to stay in that position, eyes pinched shut and chanting the mantra of _murder is bad murder is bad murder is bad_ in his head. “I did what you told me, Goldsworth. Or do you not remember that?” His tone was so calm it was terrifying.

“Yeah, I told you to go for a walk! That didn’t mean ‘take a leisurely stroll across the entire state’, ¡cabrón!” The gilded man grabbed his shoulder and yanked him away from the wall so that he was facing the shorter man. 

That offended Tinsley in a way he never knew he could be. He considered himself to be slow to anger and even slower to violence, but he was just so goddamn pissed off by all the circumstances that he found himself a hair's-breadth away from snapping and throwing a punch at Ricky. He was so blinded by his anger, in fact, he failed to notice the severe concern that was disguised by anger on the elite’s face. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Goldsworth, sir. I didn’t understand your orders, sir. I hope that you’ll be able to find it within yourself to forgive me for my egregious wrongdoings, Mr. Goldsworth, sir,” the detective mocked, mimicking the way he’d seen the servants at the Goldsworth manor act towards the heir. He even threw in a sarcastic bow to add to the whole act. 

An air of violation and disbelief befell the mobster. “My god, you’re a child. Do you even know how long you were gone??” 

The proletariat didn’t answer, rather turned around to finally hang up his crumpled hat. 

This earned a humorless laugh from Goldsworth, crossing his arms and shaking his head. “Of course you don’t, why would you?” He muttered under his breath. “ _Three hours,_ Tinsley! Three goddamn hours! Does that mean _anything_ to you?!” 

The older man ran his tongue over his teeth, slowly turning to face the petulant spoiled brat. “Why should it?” Ricky let out an annoyed and angered breath, his shoulders falling as his head lolled back. 

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Detective, you’re really starting to convince me that you want to die.” Tinsley wasn’t entirely convinced that wasn’t a threat. “I thought you’d been kidnapped, _murdered!”_

“And why the fuck would you have cared if I was dead?? You only seem to see the ‘pathetic’ part of empathetic!” 

“Because I - !” The gilded man stopped, seeming to remember himself. He used his pause to straighten his suit out and clear his throat, smoothing his hands down the front and adjusting the collar of shirt; nervous tics of his. “Because, you haven’t found Henry yet like you promised. That, and finding a new PI would be inconvenient and damn near impossible with how little time is left.” 

And, ok, that baffled the hell out of the blue collar. What the fuck did he stop himself from admitting? And why was he so nervous all of the sudden? If Tinsley was being honest, he felt like he had whiplash from how Goldsworth went from one hundred to zero with his anger. 

God, he was so tired. 

The two of them stood in their spots for a while; Ricky nervously fidgeting under the shocked and confused stare of Tinsley, Tinsley trying desperately to understand what the hell was happening with Ricky whilst cursing his sleep-deprived brain. When the silence became too much, Goldsworth was the one to crack first. 

“Look, you’ve been seen around town with me - with _Ricardo Leonardo Goldsworth_ , the next in line to the goddamn throne of the Goldsworth criminal empire - and there are countless of degenerate thugs out there who have a bone to pick with my family for one reason or another; with _me_ especially. Not to mention the low life cunts who would love to make a pretty penny in ransom after beating you within an inch of your life.” When he registered the realization on the lawman’s face, the mobster continued. “Whether or not you like it, Tin Man, you’ve been marked; marked as an associate of Ricky Goldsworth. Even if you quit right now, just drop everything and go back to Chicago, my name will follow you. For the rest of your life, you’ll be known as Detective C.C. Tinsley: the PI who was in cahoots with that wretched Goldsworth heir. No, you wouldn’t just be marked, you’d be targeted - you and Jeneane. This isn’t just a trip to New Orleans with me, or a stay at my house, this is a goddamn _commitment!_ The second you agreed to work for me was the second you relinquished yourself to living with my name staining your reputation and a life of constant peril and looking over your shoulder! I’m a goddamn _curse!!”_

The younger man was breathing hard, his hands clenched into fists so hard his hands were turning white and his eyes beginning to sparkle with tears. When Tinsley went to speak, Goldsworth beat him to it. 

“The way Percival reacted is the way everyone will react to you for the rest of your life, Tinsley. He was right, too. You have _no idea_ what you’ve gotten yourself into. It’s why I didn’t tell you who I was when I first contacted you, I just _knew_ you wouldn’t take the job if you knew it was me you’d be working with and we needed you to take it,” he confessed, his behavior becoming more erratic with each word. “God, _listen_ to me! I’m whining like a godforsaken toddler. No fucking wonder everyone in the goddamn world is so against me taking over for Mamá, I’d fucking hate me too.” 

“Goldilocks, listen to me,” the detective demanded, taking hold of his counterpart’s shoulders. He was woefully ignorant to how much he was leaning into the gilded man’s personal space. “I meant it when I said I knew what it meant to be involved with you, I’m not some fresh detective; you hired me because I’m the best, remember? And besides, this wouldn’t be the first time my job has gotten me involved with the shadiest kinds of people.” 

This seemed to calm Goldsworth down, nodding slowly as he took a deep breath. It was clear that he was still freaking out, but at least he wasn’t hyperventilating anymore.

“Frankly, I should be insulted that everyone seems to think that,” Tinsley joked, his hands sliding just a bit to rest on his counterpart’s biceps. He searched those dark eyes for any sign of Goldsworth calming, to see if they’d gotten less wide or stopped producing tears. 

The joke worked as the proletariat had hoped, it made the white collar breathe out a small laugh. “Jesus, this was supposed to be about you and here I am making a scene.” He wiped at his eyes to rid himself of the tears that had fallen down his face and Tinsley was once again questioning the moral standing of the man in front of him. 

After collecting himself enough to stop his crying, the heir continued. “You’ve been a lot more… reserved… since we got here.” 

The proletariat waited for Ricky to continue, but he didn’t. “Are you… are you trying to ask if I’m ok?” The elite pursed his lips, the silence was enough of an answer as any. The blue collar placed a hand on his chest, only partially in mockery. “Gee, Ricky, I didn’t know you cared.” 

“Oh, get fucked,” he spat, swatting the older man’s hand off him and making his way to the couch. “I mean it, though. You’re a lot more of a sad-sack than you usually are.” 

“I’m making an effort not to be insulted,” he countered, leaning his back against the wall opposite his counterpart, crossing his arms and propping his foot up against the wallpaper. “But if you really must know, I’m fine, just tired from all this running around like chickens with our heads cut off looking for Henry.” 

Goldsworth moved his leg so that it rested atop his knee, his arm resting on the back of the couch. With the detective’s reply, his eyebrow quirked up and his fingers drummed against the cushions. “You know, normally when people lie to me, it results in them having their guts decorating my floor.” 

_Fuck._ “Who’s saying I’m lying?” 

“I am, because frankly, you’re quite terrible at it.” 

“I’m not a bad liar, it’s part of my job to be convincing.” That was the first time anyone had ever called him a bad liar. Actually, it was the first time he could recall someone calling him out for lying. 

“Mmhmm, just like you’re not trying to dodge my question, right?” The drumming of his fingers started back up. 

_Fuck!_

“It’s being back in New Orleans, isn’t it?” At this, Ricky’s leg dropped to the floor and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Being back in the place where your family was killed?” The way he spoke was very tentative, cautious like a child would talk when they were in fear of being scolded. 

Tinsley felt a protective rage flare up in his chest at hearing those words in Ricky’s voice, but it was reigned in by the way he approached the subject. There was no ill intent in his voice nor any malice in his eyes, what little he could see of them because he refused to meet the detective’s gaze. That, the borderline concern, is what made the lawman respond truthfully. 

“It’s not the greatest feeling being back, no,” he sighed, facing away from his counterpart and instead facing the door. He could see the heir’s head snap up at the reply out of the corner of his eye, clearly surprised by the fact he got an honest answer. 

“I can’t imagine what that must be like, to be constantly reminded of something that horrible,” he sympathized, his fingers playing with the cuff of his sleeve. He still refused to meet the detective's eye. “I - uh, I read about the attacks in the paper. It was… grizzly, even by my standards.” 

All at once, the detective was hit with a horrific tidal wave of haunting memories from that devastating January night. The bodies, the blood, the screaming - “It’s definitely not something I fondly look back on,” he grimly replied. 

At this, Ricky became even more nervous, a look falling over his face that was close to regret. “You’re probably not going to believe this, but I’m - I’m sorry about what I said about them. It was completely and utterly unwarranted, I never should’ve done that to you.” 

Tinsley whipped his head up at this, speechless and baffled. Was Ricky Goldsworth _apologizing??_

“I-I just get so _mad_ and I can’t control it,” the murderer admitted, a hand scrubbing down his face and a look in his eyes like he was contemplating something. The detective didn’t know how to react, it was so out of character for Goldsworth. It reminded Tinsley that Ricky was human. 

After a moment of staring at his counterpart with his jaw slack, the white collar’s eyes went as wide as dinner plates and he slapped his thighs jumping out of his seat. “Stay here, I’ve got an idea.” And just like that, the gilded man was gone; a slam of the door to confirm his departure. 

“What the fuck just happened??”

+++

“Yeah, it makes no sense to me, either,” Jeneane confessed. 

The uncle’s head collided with the wall as he threw it back in exasperation, cursing and rubbing the spot of impact. “I mean, he says ‘sorry’ to me, which in and of itself was monumental enough, but then he just up and bolts afterwards.” 

The detective could hear what sounded like a page being turned on the other end. “Maybe he got overwhelmed after admitting he was wrong and had to leave because he didn’t know how to react.” 

“Jeanie, he told me he ‘had an idea’ and then ran out of here like his ten years were up and I was a hellhound,” Tinsley added, holding the chord in his hand as he paced back and forth, checking his watch every few minutes. 

“What do you want me to do? You’re the detective, Uncle Colton, not me,” she argued, a tiredness in her tone that he so often heard from her when she was reaching her limit. 

“Honey, there are things that even I can’t solve.” 

The jingling of keys were heard before the door swung open, Goldsworth being revealed and holding shopping bags in his hands. 

“Where the hell were you??” the older man demanded, the phone pulled away from his mouth. 

“Is it Ricky? Put him on, I wanna talk to him!”

The elite had the audacity to laugh. “I’m getting déjà vu.” He quickly walked over to his counterpart and snatched the phone out of his hand before the proletariat could stop him. 

“What on earth are you doing?!” His question went unanswered. Instead, he watched the heir speak to his niece like they were best friends. 

“Little Legs, yeah, how you doin’? Listen, I’ve gotta steal your uncle away, ok?” He glanced over at the blue collar before lowering his voice and covering his mouth with his hand. What he said to her next, Tinsley didn’t hear. 

“Uh-huh, yeah, will do.” Once again sparing him a glance, Goldsworth this time gave him his most charming smile as well as throwing a wink his way. “Yep, alright. You get some rest now, you hear? It’s getting late… I mean it, Little Legs… Oh, don’t call me that, I don’t think Tin Man would appreciate you comparing me to him… Goodnight, Jeneane, go to bed.” 

The younger man hung up the phone, turning towards the lawman. “Little Legs says happy birthday.” 

The proletariat was reeling trying to process what had just happened over the past few hours. “Alright, ignoring literally everything else, what the hell is going on right now??” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” the gilded man purred, advancing on the detective. 

“Yes! As a matter of fact, I would!” The sleuth found himself being pulled by the arm towards the bathroom, indignance and total confusion being his main emotions. 

“Stop your screeching and put this on,” Goldsworth commanded, shoving one of the bags into his arms and shoving him into the bathroom. “Hurry up!” he yelled right before slamming the door on Tinsley’s face. 

With a great sigh, the proletariat opened the bag and peered inside. When he registered what exactly was inside that large paper shopping bag, he sighed again. “Ricky! I’m not wearing this!” When he tried to open the door, he was stopped short by the fact that the mobster was holding it closed. 

“I figured you’d say that, so that’s why I won’t let you out of that room until you’re changed. Hurry up, now! We don’t have all night!” 

Tinsley wasn’t proud of the petulant groan he let out, but he felt it very necessary to prove how against the whole ordeal he was, banging on the door once for emphasis. 

He stepped out of the suit he wore for the entirety of that day, grumbling the entire time about how annoying Ricky was and how he should be compensated for his turmoil. The first item he retrieved from the shopping bag were a pair of light grey trousers, the fabric a light and breathable cotton. When he slipped them on he was amazed to find that they didn’t end in the middle of his shins, rather at his ankles where they should. As a test, the detective fished out next the obsidian black button-down and hastily pushing his arms through the sleeves and over his shoulders. Another perfect fit. The cuffs came to his wrists and the shirt itself wasn’t nearly bursting at the seams because it was so tight. It was snug in all the right places, his upper arms and chest. Lastly, he buttoned up the black slim fit suit vest, his outfit devoid of a blazer or tie, apparently. 

“Did you get this tailored for me??” the lawman asked after pushing the door open, apparently no longer being held captive by his partner. 

“Of course, Tinsley dearest. I can’t have you being seen hanging around the likes of me in ill-fitting attire, now can I?” the heir admitted, a snooty smile on his face. 

The detective would have had something to say about that if his words weren’t stolen from him by the sight of Goldsworth. He wore an Italian cut crisp white three-piece with an onyx black dress shirt and a blood red tie decorated with a small gold accent right below the knot. In his breast pocket was a matching blood red handkerchief, his lapel accentented with a golden pin that bore the Goldsworth family crest. In his hands he held a silk tie that resembled the color of the proletariat’s slacks. 

It took Tinsley about thirty seconds to realize that he hadn’t even breathed since he came out of that bathroom. “How did you know my size? _I_ don’t even know my size.” 

Taking the necessary steps to stand right in front of his counterpart, the gilded man chuckled, flipping the collar of the man’s shirt up. “Trust me, sugar, you didn’t have to tell me that.” 

Ricky didn’t meet the blue collar’s eyes, rather focused them on the silk tie that he was trying to knot. The space between his dark eyebrows crinkled ever so slightly as he concentrated on getting it right. “I told the seamstress to measure the flagpole that stood outside the store.” 

Before he could get a word in, Goldsworth slapped Tinsley on the shoulder and smiled once he finished tucking the tie into the detective’s vest. “Come on, Tin Man, we've got places to be!”

+++

“Ricky, where are we _going??”_ the detective asked for what felt like the hundredth time. And just like every other time, Goldsworth only replied by giving him a sly glace. 

Tinsley threw his head back in frustration, a huff of irritation being ripped from his lungs. He didn’t even bother to take his eye off the star spattered night sky as the gilded man turned a corner. He pulled to a stop in front of a closed barber shop, earning a very confused look from the proletariat. 

“Alright, now you’ve made me believe that you’ve officially lost your mind, Goldilocks.” They both stepped out of the car, the older one much more reluctantly than the other. He regarded the empty and dark building, wondering why in the hell Ricky would be in such a goddamn rush to bring him here. 

The heir puffed out one drag of his cigarette before throwing it onto the ground and stubbing it out with his polished black shoe. “I find it hard to believe that you didn’t think that before now,” he scoffed, reaching into his jacket to replace the cigarette he’d just finished. 

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” the detective criticized, disgusted and concerned, pulling his eyebrows together in a furrow. 

A slightly offended look was cast towards him as the elite paused from retrieving a cigarette from the case in his hand. “Why? It’s not they can kill you.” 

“Maybe they haven’t proved they can yet,” Tinsley refuted, adjusting the position of his watch as he rounded the car. When he reached his counterpart, the sleth plucked the cigarette case out of Ricky’s hands and snapped it shut, tucking it into his own pocket. 

“Hey! Give that-”

“If a person can die from inhaling too much smoke from a house fire, they can die from inhaling too much smoke from a cylindrical paper stick.” 

“And why don’t you smoke? It would calm you down, and Lord knows you need to,” the gilded man posited whilst trying to reach into his counterpart’s pocket. 

“Because I’ve breathed in enough smoke to last me a lifetime,” he professed, grabbing Goldsworth’s wrist and pulling it up and away from his hip. “Weren’t we in a hurry or something?” 

The mobster huffed and wrenched his arm out of the blue collar’s grip. “As a matter of fact, we are. Follow my lead, cabrón.” 

“Hey, you were the one pushing me out the door earlier,” Tinsley called out after the gilded man, quickening his pace ever-so slightly to catch up. The pair were walking down a dark and decrepit alleyway that was more grime than infrastructure. Their shoes seemed to be captured momentarily by an amalgamation of congealed tacky substances that the proletariat could only guess could be as they traversed further down the path. The place was so dimly lit the sleuth could only see a faint outline of the man he was following and tripped more than once over God knows what. 

“I should’ve pushed you off a cliff instead,” the white collar grumbled, stopping in front of a nondescript door and knocking three times. A panel that stood at eye level slid open to reveal a capricious pair of stern eyes. 

The eyes scanned the detective first, the steely glare hardening further as they raked across his altitudinous frame. Only when the eyes moved to Ricky’s arrogant form did they snap open in recognition; sliding the slat shut hastily. 

“Nice going, Goldilocks,” Tinsley slighted, knocking his elbow against the younger man’s tricep. 

Almost as if timed perfectly to make the lawman eat his words, the door was ripped open and a burly man was falling over himself to _bow_ to the mobster. “Mr. Goldsworth! It’s an honor to have you visit us!” 

The shit-eating grin the heir threw at the detective was so purely Goldsworth that it took every drop of restraint he had not to just turn and leave. The blue collar inhaled deeply through his nose to center himself, taking in the smell of stale beer and soured hard liquor. 

“Yes, I quite believe it should be,” the gilded man smoothly purred with an air of such pompousness that the proletariat nearly damaged his optic nerve from rolling his eyes so hard. He made no effort to hide his weary sigh, either. 

“Of course, right this way, sir,” the doorman motioned, still keeping his head ducked to show his entirely misplaced and asinine respect. 

Look, Tinsley had some respect for Goldsworth; he admired his fierce devotion to his family (blood and found) as well as how well he can manipulate to get what he wanted - something he himself was _very_ guilty of. But it’s also hard to respect a man fully after you’ve seen him whine over the fact that he couldn’t drink his coffee because _”it’s not the right temperature, are you trying to poison him??”_

Following his counterpart once again, the sleuth soon found himself thrown into the middle of a hedonistic den of debauchery that would’ve made any practiced Christian to cross themselves at the sight. 

In front of the infamous pair was a dim but warmly lit jazz club that was packed full of illicit practitioners worshiping at their altar of unconstitutional liquor and choir of brass and reed instruments. Men and women pranced loosely on the dancefloor, women adorned in short fringe that splayed out in hypnotizing tendrils with each move of her body. A live band vivaciously blared vibrant notes that pandered to all the howling jazz hounds under that surreptitious roof. Patrons of all ages guzzled down smuggled alcohol like it was the Civil War and a doctor was coming to saw their legs off; bartenders pouring drinks in a seamless waterfall of intoxication. The smoke from the numerous cigars and cigarettes cast a hazy amber fog across the whole scene like it was an artistic choice. 

“You rushed me out of our hotel room to bring me to a _speakeasy?”_

This earned a vexed look tossed at him by the heir, hearing the “this bitch, I swear to god” in Ricky’s thoughts. “Not just _any_ speakeasy, cabrón. You could at least act grateful, asshole.” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, your grace. It seems I was very out of line for even _thinking_ about putting my concerns over getting arrested first. How will you ever forgive me?” The lawman took off his to place it over his heart, batting his eyelashes because he’s just that annoying when he wants to be. 

Rather than acknowledge the childish way Tinsley was acting, Ricky instead turned to the doorman from earlier that was hovering a little too close to the gilded man for comfort. “Take us to our booth.” 

The doorman nodded excitedly and led the way to the pair’s booth, pushing through patrons that all gawked at the heir as he passed them by, their whispers not as quiet as they believed them to be. 

The man stopped in front of a booth that was fairly secluded from the overbearing crowd, the music slightly muffled as it was positioned behind the bandstand. A much less busy side of the bar was easily accessible and only a short walk away. The booths on either side of the one they stopped in front of were also empty, a sign with the word “reserved” gilded into black plastic. The doorman plucked a similar sign off the table they were led to, holding out a hand in gesture for them to make themselves comfortable. 

“A server will be with you gentlemen soon,” his gruff voice projected over the music. The employee turned on his heel presumably to return to his post at the door. When he left, that’s when Tinsley could feel the multiple eyes trained on him, studying his every move and calculating each possible motive behind it. If Ricky noticed, he didn’t comment. 

“Ricky, I don’t know if I feel comfortable here-” 

“You’ll be _fine_ Long Legs, this place won’t get raided,” Goldsworth dismissed, already lounging in the red upholstery like he owned the place. 

“You have absolutely no way of knowing-” 

“Goddamn, Tinsley. I brought you here to unwind, ya know, _relax._ As much of a foreign concept as that is to you, I think you’d come to enjoy it.” Ricky moved his arms onto the table so that he was leaning against them with his hands clasped together. He began studying his counterpart, probably noticing the irritation that he felt at being cut off twice in a row and the fact that his anxieties were still prevalent. 

Tinsley could feel his brow knit together as he crossed his arms over his chest. That kid just had no empathy sometimes. This staring duel carried on for some time, the detective too stubborn to speak and end it. 

The elite sighed and retreated back into a lounging position, both his elbows resting on the back of the booth. “Fine, because he you can’t just trust my word…” he mumbled under his breath while pinching the bridge of his nose. “My men are surveillancing the whole perimeter, I’ve got spies on the inside, yada yada yada… If one of those coppers even thinks about this place, I’ll know about it.” 

With his explanation done, the mobster rolled his head to face the proletariat’s, an “are you satisfied” look plastered onto his face and crowned with a smirk. 

“You _own_ this place?” Tinsley hissed, bracing his hand onto the table as he leaned toward the heir. He wasn’t sure why he felt so shocked by this information. 

“You could say that,” the gilded man purred, removing the forgotten hat off of his counterpart’s head. The detective let it happen, a little too shocked to really react. “You could also say that we supply this joint so we got special treatment.” 

“If you don’t own the joint, then how does that explain the spies and surveillance team?” 

“I called in a few favors to ensure the utmost safety.” 

The way he looked at Tinsley… He’d never seen a look like that projected at him before. It was all too much for him to handle on top of the sensory overload he was experiencing, so forgive him for his sluggish mind in the moment. 

“But… why? It’s not like you’re afraid of the law, you think yourself above it.” This caused another exasperated sigh to leave the white collar’s smile.

“It’s my friend’s birthday today, wanted to do somethin’ special for him and I knew he’d never have fun unless he knew he’d be safe,” the younger man slurred, not a drop of alcohol in his blood. 

Finally, the pieces clicked. Suddenly, Tinsley’s face felt hot and his chest swelled with warmth. The blue collar couldn’t help it, he smiled. It was really fucking hard to remeber how much of a brat he was when he did shit like that. 

But, it seemed Goldsworth was able to serve his own reminder to the sleuth. “He’s supposed to meet us here pretty soon, I think you’ll like him. His name’s Nick Carraway and he can be a little quiet, but don’t let that fool you.” 

They both dissolved into lighthearted laughter, the anxiety lifting off the lawman’s chest. To take its place was this warm feeling swell and mix with a feeling of sadness that he just couldn’t ignore. His mind had an uncanny ability to ruin things for him, truly a talent only he possessed. 

Almost immediately, Ricky noticed. “What’s the matter, Tin Man? Do you not like it? I can get us a better table if you need me to.” 

A huge part of him told him not to answer, to deflect and just bury his feelings, but he was just so goddamn tired of doing that. “What? No, this is fine. I just… I mean, earlier today it seemed like you didn’t care that it was my birthday.” 

Tinsley didn’t know what he was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t laughter. He snapped his head up to see Goldsworth with his head tilted back against the booth, hand on his forehead. 

“Oh, Dios mío,” he breathed out while trying to control his rather rude outburst. 

“Alright, you don’t have to be a dick about it.”

“ _Darling,_ ángel, I literally _jumped_ out of my seat and crashed onto the floor after you told me.”

Wow, Ricky loves revisionist history. “You kicked me out of the room after saying, and I fucking quote: ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn’ after I brought up the fact that it’s birthday! What the fuck else was I supposed to think?!” 

“I made you leave so that I could plan this for you! Jesus Christ, I did it so it would be a surprise for your lanky ass!” 

“Uh, is this a bad time?” A man in his early twenties asked, a pad of paper and a pen in his hand. He was - understandably - reluctant as he watched the pair, the two of them only a few breaths away from the other. 

“No, not at all. We’ll take a cellar bourbon, leave the bottle,” Goldsworth replied before Tinsley even had the chance to breathe. The kid wrote down the order and left after saying it will be right up. 

“What the hell is a ‘cellar bourbon’?” 

“It’s what they save for the head honchos,” he replied, twisting a ring around his finger. 

The lack of conversation was made even more apparent as the band switched to another song, an upbeat melody that made all the people in the building cheer in excitement. People began converging onto the dancefloor, swaying joyfully at the music. 

Their drink was set on the table along with two glasses. Song after song entertained the increasingly drunk patrons. Drink after drink was downed by the pair. Not a word was spoken. 

Finally, after what felt like an hour, Tinsley cracked. “This is so childish, we’re here celebrating my birthday and yet here we sit in stubborn silence.” 

Ricky threw him a quick glance before downing the rest of his drink. “Indeed. Here we sit.” 

Another loaded silence filled the air.

“Goddamn it, dance with me, asshole,” the younger man growled, slamming his glass down onto the table with a loud _bang!_

“Well, when you put it that way, how can I refuse?” the blue collar retorted, barely turning his head to talk

With a shake of his head, the gilded man stood up and held out his hand for his counterpart to take. Tinsley would be lying if he said a stab of fear didn’t go through him at that moment. He looked at the hand and then Ricky, shaking his head.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, what?!” Frustration was soaked into his words. 

“I can’t fucking dance, alright?! I’ve got bad limbs!” He absolutely refused to meet the man’s eye. 

“And you call _me_ dramatic,” the heir muttered. 

The next thing he knew, the detective was being dragged out of his seat and onto the dancefloor by his goddamn necktie like he was a leashed dog. “Let go of me, Goldsworth!” 

“In your dreams, big boy! You’re getting dance lessons, cabrón,” the elite commanded, using a tone that left no room for debate. 

Tinsley was too drunk to really fight, so he just sighed defeatedly. That was his life now, apparently. 

Half an hour later and more than a few new bruises on each man, the blue collar was finally getting the hang of dancing. He was finally able to go through a full song without being a danger to himself or others. In celebration of this, the lawman had run off to get them each a new drink that neither of them really needed. 

In his absence, a woman had filled the spot in front of his counterpart. She was pretty, around the same age as Goldsworth, and blonde. If circumstances were different, she would’ve been someone he’d try to talk to himself. But they weren’t. All the proletariat could see was the way she smiled at Ricky and how much he seemed to be enjoying himself. 

Watching the two of them dance together made anger bubble deep inside the detective’s chest. An ugly, dark sludge scorched and churned inside of him. Underneath it all, a bizarre sense of violation clutched at his heart and sank it’s claws in, feeding the fires of his unprecedented anger. The sharp edges of the glasses he was holding pierced his skin at the white-knuckle grip he suddenly had on them. 

It was all fucking wrong. 

“Hey Ricky, here’s your drink, buddy,” he gritted out, forcing a friendly but strained smile. He didn’t give the gilded man the chance to speak before he was talking again. “I think I’ll find someone else to dance with.” 

Turning on his heel, Tinsley pushed into the crowd and made himself invisible to his counterpart

+++

“And what did you say your name was again?” 

“Rosalie,” the brunette chirped, stepping closer to him than he really was comfortable with. 

She was the newest dance partner, number fifteen or close to that. He really was just trying to distract himself from his overwhelming urge to pick a fight with that blonde from earlier. 

It was becoming overbearingly stuffy in the building for him. He’d managed to get close to the stage and the blaring of the trumpets was doing his hearing no favors. He’d consumed about as many drinks as he did dance partners and his vision and motor skills were beginning to suffer greatly. 

The song changed and his partner let out an excited exclamation. “I love this song!”

Tinsley listened in an attempt to place a name on the tune, but his mind was logged with alcohol and failed him. “What song is it?” He spun his partner. 

“‘Don’t Scare Me Papa’!” Again, the detective was drawing a blank. 

“I don’t think I know that one,” he admitted, his words slurring together. 

The girl, her name once again forgotten by the blue collar, frowned in disapproval. “Oh, sure you do! _Everyone_ knows the Axeman’s Jazz!” 

All of the sudden, the proletariat’s mind wasn’t slow and it flooded itself with horrific memories. The heat he was experiencing was doused instantly by his blood turning to ice. He felt too dizzy to stand properly and he felt like he wanted to throw up. 

“-you ok?” The brunette asked, her face scrunching up in concern. 

He looked at her, fear widening his eyes. He needed to get out. He couldn’t be in this room anymore, he just wanted the night to be over. 

“I think I’m about to cry,” he admitted in his panic, saying the first thing that came to his head. 

Tinsley didn’t even wait for her reaction before he fled, stumbling towards where his reserved booth was to retrieve his hat and hopefully Goldsworth. All of the sudden, he totally forgot why he was mad at him in the first place. But when he got to the table, there was no sign of the gilded man anywhere. 

With each performed note of that wretched song, the detective felt himself get more and more sober. He continued searching the surrounding area, but there was sign of him anywhere. _Goddamn it, Goldilocks! Where are you??_

“Can I help you, sir?” the waiter from earlier asked, his concern not very well hidden. 

“Have you seen Goldsworth anywhere? Do you know where he is?” the sleuth asked more frantically than he wanted to. Even to himself, he sounded absolutely desperate. 

“Uh… not since earlier, sir,” he apprehensively admitted. Tinsley totally deflated, running his hands through his hair. 

“Someone mentioned that he was getting some cigarettes from his car, but that was ten minutes ago,” a bartender added from her position behind the bar, pouring a shot for a very drunk debutant. 

_He wouldn’t…_

“Thank you!” He placed his hat onto his head and pushed his way through the writhing mass of bodies to get to the door. It was so fucking hard to breathe… 

The detective burst through the exit, frantically scanning for his counterpart and praying to the Lord above that he didn’t take off without him. He was nowhere to be found. The only thing greeting him in that filthy alleyway was darkness and the putrid smell of vomit and blood. 

The blood was a new smell, an alarming one at that. Even though it had no basis in reality, Tinsley’s mind made the jump that the blood was from Ricky somehow and not from an alleycat killing a rat or anything logical like that. And no matter how much he tried to think of plausible explanations, his gut kept telling him that Goldsworth was near and in danger. 

“Goldilocks,” he called out into the void of the alley, continuing down   
Against his better judgement. He strained to listen for a response, a sigh, _anything,_ but the only thing he heard was someone breaking bottles. 

Or so he thought. 

When he approached the origin of the strange noises, the detective’s stomach dropped like it was made of lead. He turned a corner in that alley and wedged between two brick walls was a gaggle of about eight burly men and a sight that he couldn’t comprehend. Each man had his own weapon: a pipe, a Louisville slugger, a broken bottle, ect. And each man seemed to be taking turns beating up a person who was curled up on the ground, kicking at them, jabbing at them, punching them, swinging at them. Each blow made a sickening noise that the sleuth can’t even begin to describe, it was so visceral. The person laying on the ground wasn’t making any noise or even reacting in any way to what was being done to them. 

Then Tinsley’s brain connected the dots.

“ _Goldsworth!”_ he cried, not thinking of his own safety at that moment. With his outcry, his presence was finally noticed as each thug turned their head towards the fool. 

“Is that him?” One of them asked, leaning towards another. 

“Gotta be, he’s just like the boss described.” With this cryptic dialogue, the gang of men disengaged from their hostile position against his counterpart. They advanced on him, but the detective was frozen. _Ricky wasn’t moving._

Their fun spoiled, each man shoved past the proletariat to escape into the night. If he wasn’t so focused on the broken man in front of him, Tinsley would’ve noticed the many bleeding wounds that each man had carved into their flesh. 

The last attacker stopped behind the detective, taking the bat in his hands to crack him in the lower back and sending him sprawling onto the pavement. He then felt the tip of the bat digging into one of his shoulder blades as the thug leaned down. “Percival sends his regards.” And with that, they all scrambled away like the cowards they are. 

The blue collar got to his feet as quickly as he could, ignoring the pain in his palm as he sliced it open on a piece of shattered glass. It couldn’t have been more than a few feet of distance, but to Tinsley it might as well have been a marathon. He sank to his knees next to the gilded man.

Laying on his side in the filth of the alley was Ricardo Goldsworth; beaten, bloody and broken. His once pristine white suit was ripped, smeared with scum and spattered in blood. Tinsley had seen Ricky covered in blood more times than he’d care to count, but it was never this much and hardly ever his own. There was blood dripping from his nose, mouth, and most concerningly, the side of his head. 

An all too familiar feeling of uselessness was drowning him as he took in more and more damage to the heir, each new discovery seeming to be more fatal than the last. “Ricky!”

_YOU LET HIM GET TOO CLOSE_

“Goldilocks c’mon, wake up!” 

_YOU FAILED HIM JUST LIKE YOU FAILED YOUR FAMILY_

His vision began to blur again, the panic and overwhelming hopelessness taking full control over his body. He felt his hands start to shake and feel numb, his head beginning to spin like a top. His body was switching back and forth between hot and cold, sweat beginning to form on his skin. The detective’s heart was pounding in his chest and his throat burned from his erratic breathing, all due to one simple discovery:

_Ricky wasn’t breathing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think of when I write as Ricky it’s like he’s a teenage girl being like: “dear diary, a bitch really tired it today” whereas Tinsley is more like a civil war soldier writing to his family, like: “we marched south today and morale is low, send everyone my regards”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I’ll post the next chapter as soon as I can, but while you wait, here are the links to my Pinterest board for each boy as well as my tumblr if you wanna chat with me or somethin :) 
> 
> [Ricky](https://pin.it/8jTMAje)
> 
> [Tinsley](https://pin.it/2C9fYZd)
> 
> [come stalk my tumblr](https://jackiidk.tumblr.com)
> 
> Also, your comments and kudos are _always_ appreciated and make my day!


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